


more than truth

by Sparrows



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other, Spoilers up to and including 5.3, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 28,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparrows/pseuds/Sparrows
Summary: A collection of entries inspired by the prompts given as part of FFXIVwrite 2020. Neither length nor quality of individual entries is guaranteed.Complete! 30/30 on time entries!
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Warrior of Light/Thancred Waters
Comments: 57
Kudos: 72
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	1. table of contents

  * **Foreword:**



As I mentioned in the summary, there are no guarantees as to how good each chapter will be, nor as to how long they'll be. Depends on whether a given prompt decides to grab my brain or not. Once the month is over and the ideas have had a chance to sit and marinate, I might end up using some of them to build into a standalone fic, but we'll burn that bridge when we get to it.

* * *

  * **Dramatis Personae, or, "Who Are These Assholes, Anyway?"**



I have three Warriors of Light, because the Twelve have cursed me for my hubris and my bullshit cannot be stopped. Here's some info about them.

 **[V'rahna Karo](https://i.imgur.com/bcAUaZC.png), the Song Upon the Wind**  
\- Miqo'te (Seeker)  
\- BRD main, DRK/RDM secondary  
\- ❤: Thancred

 **[Yasutori Naeuri](https://i.imgur.com/x6pR30f.png), of Unyielding Steel**  
\- Au Ra (Raen)  
\- WAR/MNK main, DRG/SAM secondary  
\- ❤: Aymeric

 **[Kjelle Virskallen](https://i.imgur.com/XKWspuo.png), Seeker of Hidden Truths**  
\- Viera (Rava)  
\- SCH/SMN main, BLM/DRK secondary  
\- ❤: G'raha Tia

* * *

  * **The Table of Contents**



**1: table of contents**  
You're looking at it, buddy!

 **2: day 1, 'crux'**  
 _the basic, decisive, or most important point of an issue. see also: turning point._  
Hades makes one last-ditch effort to convince Azem, the Fourteenth, not to leave Amaurot.  
[Hades/Azem, pre-canon]

 **3: day 2, 'sway'**  
 _to control or influence a person or action._  
The will of the star ponders that which was taken.

 **4: day 3, 'muster'**  
 _to summon up a feeling, attitude or response._  
Before the burning gates of Amaurot, there is one last thing V'rahna wants to do before the Light claims her.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, 5.0]

 **5: day 4, 'clinch'**  
 _to grapple in close quarters._  
Aymeric would greet a new day in Ishgard by getting straight to work. Yasutori has other ideas.  
[Yasutori/Aymeric, post-HW]

 **6: day 5, 'matter of fact'**  
 _unemotional; practical._  
Kjelle Virskallen and why it's better to conceal, not feel.  
[implied Kjelle/G'raha, during/post-Crystal Tower]

 **7: day 6, 'vigil' (free day)**  
 _a watchful period, most often at night; in religion, a nocturnal devotional service._  
V'rahna keeps watch over Thancred's body, much to the displeasure of one Krile Baldesion.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, 4.4]

 **8: day 7, 'nonagenarian'**  
 _a person who is between 90 and 99 years old._  
Yda makes a discovery about the Scions' newest - but by no means youngest - member.  
[Kjelle & Yda, 2.x]

 **9: day 8, 'clamor'**  
 _to shout loudly and insistently; a loud, continuous noise._  
V'rahna slips away from the Crystarium's celebrations. Thancred comes to find her. They... might need to talk.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, 5.0; leads on from #3 'muster']

 **10: day 9, 'lush'**  
 _growing vigorously and luxuriantly, especially foliage._  
A memory of a better time.  
[Hades/Azem, pre-canon]

 **11: day 10, 'avail'**  
 _to help or benefit; to take advantage of._  
Kjelle finds an unexpected delivery in her Pendants suite.  
[Kjelle, gen, 5.0]

 **12: day 11, 'ultracrepidarian'**  
 _one who gives opinions or advice on matters outside the scope of their own knowledge._  
An uncomfortable conversation between the Crystal Exarch and his young ward.  
[Exarch & Lyna, pre-canon]

 **13: day 12, 'tooth and nail'**  
 _to fight strenuously, with all one's resources._  
The final moments of the Sixth Astral Era, as seen through V'rahna's eyes.  
[V'rahna, gen, pre-canon. mild violence warning.]

 **14: day 13, 'nightmare' (free day)**  
 _a frightening or unpleasant dream._  
The Rhotano Sea, circa 1552 6AS.  
[Yasutori, gen, pre-canon backstory. **cws: drowning, child in peril**.]

 **15: day 14, 'part'**  
 _a piece of a greater whole; to be separated from something._  
Hades reflects on what has been lost, and the colour of a sunset.  
[past Hades/Azem, mostly pre-canon]

 **16: day 15, 'ache'**  
 _an emotion experienced with painful or bittersweet intensity._  
Thancred, fading memories, and what he might have had.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, takes place shortly before 5.0]

 **17: day 16, 'lucubration'**  
 _intense writing or study, particularly by lamplight._  
In a rare moment of quiet, Yasu makes some progress in learning to read.  
[Yasutori/Aymeric, set nebulously post-HW]

 **18: day 17, 'fade'**  
 _to gradually grow faint and disappear._  
After the fight against Ranj'it, V'rahna realises how much might have been lost.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, 5.0, set just after _"Full Steam Ahead"_ ]

 **19: day 18, 'panglossian'**  
 _naively, unreasonably optimistic._  
Because sometimes, "everything is going to be okay" really _is_ a lie.  
[Kjelle, 5.0, set after Mt. Gulg]

 **20: day 19, 'where the heart is'**  
"It matters not how many times Azem leaves the city, how keenly he feels their absence; he knows they will always return, given time."  
[Hades/Azem, pre-canon]

 **21: day 20, 'tired' (free day)**  
 _in need of sleep or rest; weary_  
Kjelle attempts to convince a contrary miqo'te that he does, in fact, need even _more_ sleep.  
[Kjelle/G'raha, end of 5.3 MSQ]

 **22: day 21, 'foibles'**  
 _a minor weakness or eccentricity in someone's character._  
In which Yasutori meets the lady of the Borel manor and immediately falls in love.  
[Yasutori/Aymeric, no specific timeframe]

 **23: day 22, 'argy-bargy'**  
 _british slang referring to an argument or debate._  
Y'shtola takes tea and gives some advice.  
[V'rahna & Y'shtola, V'rahna/Thancred; set post-5.0 during Eden raids]

 **24: day 23, 'shuffle'**  
 _archaic term for a piece of equivocation or subterfuge._  
Yasutori recounts the tragic circumstances surrounding his departure from his previous employment.  
[Yasutori, timeline ambiguous, mostly concerns backstory]

 **25: day 24, 'beam'**  
 _a radiant or good-natured look or smile._  
G'raha Tia, and the hidden emotions of the Warrior of Light.  
[G'raha/Kjelle, unfinished oops]

 **26: day 25, 'wish'**  
 _an expression of a hope for someone's success, happiness, or welfare._  
Biggs, third of his name and the eighteenth president of the Ironworks, and his ancestor's hopes for the future.

 **27: day 26, 'when pigs fly'**  
 _an idiom describing something that is impossible or highly unlikely._  
A heart cannot be broken if you never give it to someone in the first place.  
[V'rahna/Thancred, pre-relationship pining]

 **28: day 27, 'assist' (free day)**  
 _to help another by doing a share of the work; to make things easier for someone_  
Being an Au Ra isn't all fun and games; sometimes, you need a little help from those closest to you.  
[Yasutori/Aymeric, shameless excuse for fluff]

 **29: day 28, 'irenic'**  
 _aiming or aimed at peace; concerned with reconciling different Christian denominations and sects._  
Elidibus attempts to mend what has been broken. Takes place shortly before "crux".

 **30: day 29, 'paternal'**  
 _of or appropriate to a father._  
A trip out in the Crystarium, and thoughts of family.  
[V'rahna/Thancred gently implied]

 **31: day 30, 'splinter'**  
 _a small, thin fragment broken off from a larger piece. see also: shard._  
Full circle.


	2. day 1: crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **crux** _/krʌks/_  
>  _noun;_ the basic, decisive, or most important point of an issue  
>  see also: **_turning point._**
> 
> Hades makes one last-ditch effort to convince Azem, the Fourteenth, not to leave Amaurot.

_The zodiac is defined by the movement of the sun through the heavens. As it passes through the sky, so too does it pass through each constellation in turn. Without the sun, the zodiac has no meaning._

_Without our sun, we were lost: naught more than stars in the night sky, aimless without a shepherd to guide us._

* * *

“My decision is _final_ , Hades.”

Azem - for he cannot think of them by any other name, even now - folds their arms. The set of their jaw is stubborn and familiar in that stubbornness. No mask adorns their face, and it leaves the golden hue of their eyes to glint with an uncommon steel. They turn, sharply, and continue packing their belongings into a satchel as though he was not there.

“Please,” he says again, softer. “If you would just _return to us_ \- the Convocation will take you back. Nobody else could fill the seat of Azem as you do.”

They sigh, and do not turn to face him. “If I come back,” they say eventually, and Hades feels his heart lift at those words, “would you call off the summoning? Would you give the people of this star the chance to fight for themselves and for each other?”

The lightness in his chest vanishes; his heart may well be a rock for all that it plummets into his stomach, leaving a chill in its wake. “I— I cannot—”

“You _cannot make any promises._ Of course,” Azem finishes for him. They scoop up something from a shelf and turn it over in their hands a time or two before they spin on their heel and hand it to him. “Look at this,” they snap, and Hades obeys (as he always has, ever since they were children yet to even Create their first mask together, back before they found their name ill-fitting and chose its replacement thrice over).

It’s a hand-made carving, wood whittled crudely into the shape of a rose. No masterwork, Created in absolute perfection by a finely-wrought matrix - the wood was Created, yes, he can tell that much, but it was man’s own two hands and sharp tools that peeled away the outer layer to reveal art within. He has seen better sculpture in Amaurot’s galleries - and yet, and yet, and yet. The amateurish nature lends the piece a certain charm.

“People like to give me gifts,” Azem says, sounding wistful, fond. They lift the wooden rose out of his fingers and inspect it, lifting the sculpture to their nose as though it were a real flower. “Their way of thanking me for the work I do. ‘Twas a little girl that gave this to me. You would not recognise her name, or that of her mother, or the village in which she lives. None of the Convocation would.”

Hades blinks, opens his mouth to object—

“Don’t give me that look. If it’s not _Amaurot_ then the Convocation doesn’t _care_.” Azem snorts. They flip the satchel shut and buckle it, the click of the mechanism startlingly loud. “These are the lives you want me to— you want me to _help you destroy_.”

Hades reaches out, his palms resting on the insides of Azem’s forearms, up near the elbows. Their tail flicks behind them, ears pressed flat - he will give this form of theirs credit in that the body language is so much easier to read - but they do not push him away. “It would be for the good of all. The good of the _star_ , Azem— _Pandora—_ surely you can see why we _must_ do this?”

Azem sighs. He feels it against his lips - feels it again when they lean in and kiss him, slow and soft, the simple give-and-take, push-and-pull, full of the warmth and tenderness that has ever been their love. But there is weight behind this kiss, weight that pins Hades where he stands and renders him silent save for the flutter of breath between them; it is not until Azem pulls away, looks at him with wide and solemn eyes, that he can name the weight for what it is. _Regret._

“You cannot change my mind,” Azem whispers, and it sounds like _goodbye_ and it sounds like _I love you_ and it sounds like _I’m sorry_ but worst of all, he thinks, the worst is that it sounds like _and I would make this choice again and again if I had to, and it would always be like this—_

They swing the satchel onto their shoulder and duck around him to the doorway. The light from the hallway beyond silhouettes them in gold, the sun’s radiance bottled up in a body far too small for it— and then the door closes, leaving him dark and alone.

This is the last time Hades will see Azem whole.

It is not the last time he will see them.

_(and he will ever wonder, after; what if? what if he had changed their mind after all; what if they had agreed, what if they had slipped on their mask once more and added their voice to the chorus crying Zodiark forth in all His perfection, all His sublime wholeness and glory? might the world still have been broken at the spine as it was, shattered and sundered and left bleeding? even if it had, might they have survived alongside him? might the convocation have held on to the sun that showed them how to shine?)_

_(untold eons and epochs and a Sundering later and still, still he wonders.)_


	3. day 2: sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **sway** _/sweɪ/_  
>  _verb;_ to move rhythmically from one side to another.  
>  _to control or **influence** a person or action._
> 
> The will of the star ponders that which was taken.

Your servants falter.

they doubt Your perfection, Your glory. they whisper amongst themselves, perhaps in the mistaken belief that You will not hear.

 _“what if He fails,”_ they whisper. _“what if He cannot return that which was lost?”_

they falter. they doubt. they whisper.

and because of this, they _argue_. some few voices rise in a chorus opposed to Your own. they speak of shackles, of duty, of binding You in all Your sublime power. the defector, the traitor, the one who turned tail and fled when faced with Your _divinity_ , is at least not among them, and You are pleased by this.

but something must be done. a heart divided cannot beat.

_a Heart._

**_yes._ **

yes, You will give them this.

You will give them _Hope_.

  
You separate Yourself. You are still You and the Heart is the Heart, the _Emissary_ , the one who would unite the broken pieces of Your subjects. You give Him to the others and watch, and You wait, and You are pleased when they accept Him.

 _“elidibus,”_ they cry out, _“you are returned to us, exactly as promised,”_

and He smiles, and it is Your smile. He speaks, and it is Your word. _“Lord Zodiark offers salvation for those who keep the faith,”_ He says. _“as I am returned to you, so shall all our fallen brethren,”_ He says. it is Hope and it is Salvation and it is all that You have promised. it is not a lie. not really. it is a promise.

they need only to sacrifice.

they need only to let You in.

they need nothing at all, after that, save that which You give to them.

**_Hope._ **


	4. day 3: muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **muster** _/ˈmʌstə/_  
>  _verb;_ to assemble troops, either for inspection or for battle.  
>  to collect or gather a number or amount.  
>  _to summon up (a feeling, attitude, or response)._
> 
> _"There is nothing and no-one, on this star or any other, that could make me turn away if you needed me."_
> 
> Before the burning gates of Amaurot, there is one last thing V'rahna wants to do before the Light claims her.

Beyond the gates, Amaurot burned. The end of the world, or a memory thereof.

Mere minutes before had seen Emet-Selch stride into the flames without so much as a backwards glance, assured in the knowledge the Scions would follow. All goodbyes had been spoken - though none would dare to call them that, for to acknowledge that it was a _goodbye_ was to accept, however implicitly, that there was a _parting_ in the future. And _that_ was a truth nobody was willing to face.

Urianger, Y’shtola, the twins, even Ryne - all had gone on ahead, save for Thancred, who now lingered in the Capitol’s great and golden hall. V’rahna hung back, watching as he fiddled with the bracers of his gauntlets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other without looking away from the flickering flames that the others had all already passed beyond.

They waited, now, on the other side— and that meant, for the moment, V’rahna and Thancred were alone.

Not _all_ goodbyes had been spoken. Not yet, at least.

V’rahna took a deep breath and tugged both hands through her hair, hoping vaguely that it might soothe the anxiety simmering in her bones or at least stay the trembling of her hands. The words not yet spoken burned on her tongue; she was afraid they might spill out like sparks the second she opened her mouth.

“Thancred,” she whispered; even like this her voice seemed over-loud in the Capitol hall, carrying above the crackle of doomsday fires to stir the silver-haired gunbreaker from his reverie. He startled, turning to look at her, and she took the chance to close the gap between them until they stood together, well within arm’s reach.

For a moment, silence reigned once more, broken only by the crackle of far-off flames.

It was Thancred who spoke first. “I meant to thank you,” he said gently. “For talking some sense into me, back in Amh Araeng. And... well, for everything, really.” He smiled at her, the expression lopsided but no less genuine for it, making his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners. “A bard I might have been, but even I don’t have the words to express how grateful I am.”

V’rahna’s own smile felt wan and muted by comparison. “I think I understand,” she murmured, lifting her eyes to his, Light-corrupted gold meeting warm hazel. “I... I have a favour to ask of you—” and now her voice began to waver “—if this turns out to be the end.”

Thancred’s expression fell. Before he could interject, V’rahna forged onward; “If it’s too much - if I turn, if I, if it looks like I’m going to _hurt_ anyone—”

_“Don’t ask this of me—”_

“I need you to take Ryne and _run_. Leave me behind.” V’rahna’s fists clenched around her upper arms, distended claws digging into the fabric of her long gloves. The Light was a bitter burn at the back of her throat, like bile; it simmered under skin hot and sharp and even now threatening to break loose. “You don’t owe me your life, Thancred. I’d never ask for that.”

“And what if I would give it freely?”

Thancred paced back and forth for a few steps, jaw working silently, while V’rahna could do little more than stare in stunned silence; when he stopped and turned back to her, his fingers gently peeled hers away from their deathgrip, before curling around them almost protectively. “Wherever you go, I will be there to guard your back.” The pads of his thumbs rubbed across her knuckles, tracing the peak and divot of each.

“There is _nothing_ and _no-one_ ,” he said, forceful yet quiet, “on this star or any other, that could make me turn away if you needed me.”

Her eyes were burning, and not only with the Light now. She felt, suddenly, like she was running down a long hallway, the walls emblazoned with scenes from her past like tapestires flashing by in her peripheral vision - _their first meeting, Ifrit, the Praetorium, his long convalescence afterwards, the bloody banquet, reuniting in Dravania, the shared quiet moments stolen in Gyr Abania, his collapse, everything on the First, and a thousand minor moments besides—_

It was all too much. Looking back and realising that all along, she’d wanted - she’d _wanted_ and had told herself she was not allowed - and now, his words and the weight behind them indicating that perhaps _he’d_ wanted too—

“I should have done this sooner,” V’rahna muttered, and reached up to cup Thancred’s face between both of her hands. His skin was warm under her fingers but slightly rougher than she'd expected; there was the faintest shadow of stubble towards his jawline, though whether or not he _actually_ needed to shave as a soul-made-manifest she was as yet uncertain and now unlikely to ever find out.

There was _so much_ she would never know - what he looked like waking up first thing in the morning, how it would feel to fall asleep in the cradle of his arms, if there was truly any way she could kiss him that would make him stutter and blush, whether his kiss would do the same for _her_ , what it might be like to walk down the street with fingers interlaced and know that all the time in the world stretched ahead for them—

It wasn’t _fair_.

Even with him leaning down into her space, V’rahna still had to stand on tiptoe to meet Thancred’s mouth with her own. The kiss began soft, little more than the brush of her lips against his, soft and warm and yielding so readily to her own - but then she remembered, with a feeling like a sinking stone, that this was likely to be the only chance she would ever get, that she was about to walk willingly into her own grave, and the thought seemed to kindle a fire under her skin for which the one beyond the gates was no match.

Years. Years and _years_ , they could have been doing _this_ , and instead...? So much wasted time.

She grabbed at the front of Thancred’s vest with her free hand, tugging insistently at the various belts and straps there; he could stoop no lower but instead Thancred’s own hands fell to her shoulders, slid a smooth line down to her hips, and settled there, pulling her in until it almost hurt with how far back she had to cant her head to keep contact. Like this, she was immersed in him - the warmth of his embrace, the ever-present ozone tang of aethergauge cartridges, the solid weight of his presence despite not being flesh and blood - and she wished it would never end.

But it had to, and eventually, it did; when V’rahna felt her head begin to spin, everything going gently fuzzy towards the edges, she rocked back onto her heels and broke away from Thancred’s lips, though she was unwilling to move far enough away that he would have to take his hands off of her. If anything, she leaned in closer, clinging as tight as she dared, pressing her face against his chest and letting his arms sweep around her.

“ _Rahna_ ,” Thancred whispered into the crown of her head.

No tribal letter; the most familiar, most intimate way one could address a Seeker of the Sun, reserved for blood or for love. It was a privilege, and one she’d not extended to a single soul since leaving home so long ago. He said her name like a prayer to the Twelve, voice hoarse and trembling and reverent, and all it did was make her want to kiss him again.

The air was heavy with the weight of words unspoken, but there was no time left in which to speak them.

Amaurot burned. The end beckoned.

_(But at the very least, Thancred’s fingers were laced with hers when they stepped into the fire together.)_


	5. day 4: clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **clinch** _/klɪn(t)ʃ/_  
>  _verb;_ to confirm a deal  
>  to secure a nail, rivet, or bolt  
>  _to grapple in close-quarters_
> 
> Aymeric would greet a new day in Ishgard by getting straight to work. Yasutori has other ideas.

A new day dawns in Ishgard, as pale and watery as the last. Coerthas post-Calamity is cold enough in spring, and even in the height of summer it only becomes mildly tolerable, the sort of tepid climate it had once only been forced to suffer in fall; in the depths of winter, as it is now, the rising of the sun brings absolutely no warmth with it, and almost as little light.

Aymeric sighs deeply as he drags himself from slumber regardless, all his years as a Temple Knight in a bunk far less comfortable than this proving useful in forcing himself to wake with the sun. The politics of Ishgard - tumultuous as they have been ever since the conclusion of the Dragonsong War, and yet in many ways much the same as always - care not that he is warm and content in his bed, nor that he would much, _much_ prefer to stay there.

He makes to swing his legs out from under the covers and begin the process of waking for the day... only for the arm clinched around his waist to pull tighter, tugging him back against a broad, scaled chest, and for its owner to give a rumbling growl from just behind Aymeric’s head that he feels echo down to his toes.

“Yasutori,” Aymeric sighs, and the Auri man rumbles once more in brief response, but makes no move to release his partner. If anything, Yasu only settles deeper into the bedding, hooking his ankle around Aymeric’s in an undignified grapple. “ _Beloved_ ,” Aymeric tries again, his voice growing a touch plaintive as he pats at the bronze-skinned forearm pinning him into place. “Warrior of Light or no, Lucia will have my head if I’m late this morning.”

A light snort. “Don’t care,” Yasu grunts, pressing a kiss into the crown of Aymeric’s head. “M’not gettin’ out of this bed ‘less Ishgard catches swivin’ _fire_ ,” he continues, lapsing into the lingering shade of a broad Lominsan drawl. “An’ neither’re _you_ —”

Without warning he rolls onto his back, dragging Aymeric with him; the elezen squawks in protest and squirms until he has both hands planted either side of Yasu’s head, propping himself up over his partner with an indignant expression.

Yasu, on the other hand, looks utterly shameless, smirking broadly, the cerulean flare of his limbal rings bright against the weak light coming in from the curtains. “C’mon,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush a bedheaded lock of hair out of Aymeric’s face. “Another bell or so won’t hurt.”

 _Lucia and the others of the House of Lords are expecting me,_ Aymeric wants to say. _I’ve already stayed too long, and I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere too._ Instead he gives in to the treacherous little voice in the back of his head (which sounds, now that he thinks about it, _uncannily_ like Yasutori himself) telling him that another bell really _wouldn’t_ hurt. The office might even get a chance to warm in the meantime.

“Knew you’d see it my way,” Yasu says cheerfully - though sleepily - when Aymeric gives up and flops back down against him, tracing his fingers against the crest of ivory scales along Yasu’s shoulder. He rumbles, preening lazily under the affection.

Aymeric can already feel sleep renewing its pull against him, letting his eyes slip closed. “You are a _terrible_ influence,” he grumbles, and lets the answering roll of bassy laughter carry him back down into darkness.


	6. day 5: matter of fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **matter of fact**  
>  _adjective;_ unemotional and practical.
> 
> Kjelle Virskallen and why it's better to conceal, not feel.

It was a mild day in Mor Dhona, which might have been a slightly generous way to refer to weather that would be _cold_ anywhere else in Eorzea (except, perhaps, for Coerthas). NOAH’s investigation of the Crystal Tower had been halted, for the moment, for reasons Kjelle was not well-enough versed in history to understand; this left her with little to do save refine the matrices in her grimoire some more, a task that would have been infinitely easier _without_ a certain red-haired miqo’te making her business his own.

From his vantage point atop a nearby piece of ruined masonry - sprawled over it in such a way that he now hung upside-down from it - G’raha sighed deeply. It was the kind of sigh that suggested the world itself had wronged him in some way. He’d hooked his legs around a protruding chunk of stone and was now, apparently, making a game of how long he could dangle from it before all the blood rushed to his head. And bothering her at the same time.

“I’m just _saying_ , I don’t think I’ve seen you so much as _smile_.” G’raha pouted, the impact of the expression somewhat ruined by the flush high on his cheeks. “You can’t be this serious _all_ the time.”

Kjelle turned another page, glancing up only briefly. His face was very nearly the same colour as his hair. “I can, I will, and I have to,” she said idly, tapping the end of her pen against her lower lip. “Also, I’m not healing you if you fall and break something.”

“I’ll be fine,” G’raha said, though his tone was slightly strained. “And what’s this about you _have to_ be serious? Is this a Viera thing?”

Kjelle’s nose twitched. She felt, suddenly, self-conscious about her appearance; Viera were a rare sight in Eorzea and she’d drawn plenty of attention for it even before the whole ‘Warrior of Light’ thing had compounded matters. “No. It— It’s none of your business,” she said matter-of-factly, frowning down at the page. She pulled a sheet of scrap paper over and made a few notes in scrawled shorthand. “I just— _can’t_. I cannot, and that is that.”

G’raha opened his mouth to retort - and winced instead, finally hauling himself upright. He did so without using his arms, only the flex of his core muscles, which made Kjelle raise both eyebrows before she very quickly lowered them and decided not to think about her own reaction too closely. His face was still bright red and he swayed where he sat astride the ruins for a few moments, prompting a brief murmur of _I told you so_ from Kjelle.

“Fine,” he said eventually, still sounding somewhat dazed. “But I’ll find out sooner or later.”

* * *

Kjelle sighed, curling up with her head pressed to her knees. The grand doors of the Crystal Tower hummed against her spine where it pressed to the metal, a millenia of energy contained within. Her arms, wrapped around her shins, prickled with gooseflesh, though whether from the low ambient temperature or the sensation of power in the air she couldn’t be certain.

He had asked - over and over and _over_ again, poking and probing and backing off whenever she snapped at him about it - but she hadn’t wanted to share.

And now she _did_... and he was no longer around to hear it.

“I was only a child,” she began uncertainly, her voice cracking in the tomb-like silence. _No,_ she thought, _too emotional. Try again._ “I was... thirteen? Fourteen?” _No. Stick to the facts. Stick to what you know._ “I... I was young,” she said finally.

Gods, he would have laughed at her and her weak attempts to tell a story. She wished he was around to laugh at her. The grief seemed a physical ache in her chest.

“I got into an argument with one of my sisters. We weren’t really sisters, that’s— that _is_ a Viera thing, I know you always wondered—” her voice wavered again, wobbling and watery, and she had to take a moment to recompose herself. “I don’t remember why we fought. It was probably something stupid; we were still children, after all. Children don’t have important arguments.”

“I just remember feeling angry. So, _so_ angry.” Kjelle pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and buried her face against her knees. “And the angrier I got, the _hotter_ it felt. And— and _then_ —”

She stifled a sob. The crackling of ice all around her barely reached her ears.

(It was so much easier, so much _safer_ , to convince herself she felt nothing at all.)


	7. day 6: vigil (free day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **vigil** _/ˈvɪdʒɪl/_  
>  _noun;_ a watchful period, most often at night  
>  in religion, a nocturnal devotional service
> 
> V'rahna keeps watch over Thancred's body, much to the displeasure of one Krile Baldesion.

Despite outside appearances, the Rising Stones was - perhaps counter to the name - built almost entirely underground, similar in structure to the Waking Sands. It was well-equipped to the point where one could pass days by without ever needing to venture outside, although Tataru would frequently, _pointedly_ remind those Scions who insisted on doing so to step out for fresh air every now and then.

One of the facilities in the Rising Stones was its own infirmary, separate from that which served the adventurers and workers of Revenant’s Toll. V’rahna had made use of it herself on more than one occasion, for those rare instances when she was, paradoxically, too badly injured to heal herself.

For now, though, Dawn’s Respite lay quiet, occupied by a single patient.

From a distance, Thancred Waters could have been sleeping. Certainly he looked the part; his ever-present bandana was missing, exposing eyes closed in deepest slumber, and the battered and beaten leathers he wore had been replaced with a simple shirt and soft sleep-pants. His chest rose and fell, tiny gusts of air leaving half-parted lips, but there was no other sign of movement. Not even the flickering lid or scrunched brow of an intense dream.

V’rahna watched him from her vantage point upon a chair she’d pulled up at his bedside, her knees tucked up under her chin and her tail lashing unhappily against her ankles. It had been three suns since they’d moved Thancred from the Ala Mhigan infirmaries to Mor Dhona; she’d barely left his side since, and in all that time he had yet to so much as twitch.

It reminded her of the days following the Praetorium, a time that now seemed impossibly long ago. She had kept vigil over him then, too; waiting anxiously by his bedside, praying that he would wake sooner rather than later, that Lahabrea’s control and her own fight with him had not injured him beyond salvation. At least then she’d had the assurance of the healers that he _would_ wake, given time and care.

Now she had nothing. Nothing but hope and the stubborn, stalwart refusal to leave his side, lest he wake in her absence and find himself alone.

The door to the Respite opened, briefly letting in a narrow slice of light from the hall beyond, and then clicked shut once more. From where she was sitting, V’rahna could see who had just entered, but the light, shuffling footsteps that followed told her who it was. Krile gave a loud sigh; the Lalafellin healer seemed deeply disappointed, and it did not take a fellow scholar to reason why.

“I thought I told you to get some rest,” Krile said, rounding the corner of the curtains that walled off the beds from immediate view. “If his condition changes, I _promise_ you, I will let you know. _Personally_ , if I have to.” She picked her way between the beds before coming to a stop on the opposite side from where V’rahna was perched, hands on her hips and frowning.

V’rahna’s ears drooped guiltily. “I know, I know,” she muttered, closing her eyes. “I just... I want to be here when he wakes up.”

Krile’s expression softened as she picked up the sheaf of notes stacked on Thancred’s bedside and began to read the topmost sheet by candlelight. V’rahna had, with idle curiosity and precious little else to occupy her time, leafed through them before - notes on the stability of Thancred’s aether, the condition of his body, and such other things as a physician might need to know. Reading such clinical detachment had made her feel vaguely nauseous.

Eventually Krile sighed, setting the notes aside. “If you won’t do it for _me_ ,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose, “then consider doing it for _his_ sake.” She gestured at Thancred with her free hand. “I doubt that if he wakes, he’d be at _all_ pleased to find out the Warrior of Light was so stubborn in her vigil over him that she ended up ill herself.”

Oh, V’rahna could _well_ imagine the playful teasing she’d have to endure were that the case. Something in her chest, her throat, ached at the thought; she almost wished for it to be true simply because it would mean he was well again. “He wouldn’t,” she agreed ruefully, fingers dropping to fidget with the choker wrapped double around her wrist. A gift, meant in jest so long ago, but one that had seldom left her person since. “...Could I use one of the other beds?” She flicked her head towards them, empty and neatly-made in morbid anticipation of being used eventually. “So I don’t have to leave.”

Krile eyed her critically from the far side of Thancred’s sickbed. Eventually, she conceded with a groan. “Just for tonight,” she said, “and only because it means you’ll actually get some _rest_ , Twelve be merciful.”

V’rahna climbed out of the chair with a hiss, wincing as her legs protested the change in position; she’d not moved in at least a bell and even someone as flexible as her was bound to feel the strain. Pushing the chair into the gap she’d plucked it from, V’rahna turned and lay upon the nearest bed to Thancred’s, apparently to little surprise from Krile, who merely huffed and returned her focus to whatever spell she was casting upon the unconscious rogue.

Eventually, however, the check-up was done, and Krile left Dawn’s Respite without more than a murmured goodbye and a lingering look. With her departure, the room was cast into moonlit darkness once more.

V’rahna curled up on her side, suddenly feeling very alone in the silence as she pulled the thin blanket up over herself. The gap between Thancred’s bed and her own seemed a yawning chasm; she was struck, briefly, with the urge to reach across and see if she could span it with her arm. But no matter how far she reached, he always lay just beyond her grasp.

Sleep was a long, _long_ time in coming that night.


	8. day 7: nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nonagenarian** _/ˌnɒnədʒɪˈnɛːrɪən,ˌnəʊnədʒɪˈnɛːrɪən/_  
>  _noun;_ a person who is between 90 and 99 years old.
> 
> Yda makes a discovery about the Scions' newest - but by no means youngest - member.

Yda’s laughter carried bright and clear through the Waking Sands from where the Scions - or most of them, at any rate - had gathered in the common room. It was rare for them all to be present in the Sands at the same time and rarer still for all of them to be free for socialising; indeed, Minfilia was stuck attending to business in the Solar, while Urianger and Y’shtola had both taken their leave earlier in the evening, citing matters that urgently required their attention. (Matters which, Yda suspected, would be far less _fun_. They could be so _boring_ sometimes.)

Even Kjelle, their very own _Warrior of Light_ , was in attendance, though she (much like Y’shtola, come to think of it) was forgoing the bottles that Thancred had broken out of storage, and seemed quite content to instead delicately perch a teacup at her elbow while she pored over her grimoire. Every now and then she would break from her reading to sip at her tea and offer insights on whatever story was being passed around.

Currently Yda was regaling the table - slightly tipsily, given the mostly-empty tankard clutched in one hand that she kept waving around as she described the scene - with the epic tale of Papalymo saving her from becoming a morbol’s next snack, much to the Lalafell’s consternation.

“Honestly, Yda,” he huffed, “if I had been a _moment_ later, all that would have been left of you would be your boots!” He had passed on the ale and was instead nursing the same glass of red he’d asked to be poured when the drinking had started. “You ought to be more careful. One of these days I shan’t be there to save you, you know!”

In response, Yda leaned over and cheerfully ruffled Papalymo’s hair, sending the thaumaturge into a squawking protest as he set to flattening it back down. “You’re always so _serious_ , Papalymo! I know you’re the oldest of us,” she said, grinning wickedly as she drew out the word like some sort of toffee treat, “but you don’t have to be such a little grandpa all the time.”

Papalymo huffed, folding his arms. “Well, _one_ of us ought to be responsible— _wait_ ,” he sputtered, unfolding his arms in shock. “I am only _forty-two_ , I will have you know! That is hardly _old_ , particularly by Lalafellin standards!”

Kjelle hummed softly, lifting her teacup from its saucer and taking a long, loud sip. “My ninety-third nameday was last spring, if anybody is curious,” she said lightly, without looking up, “but please, _do_ go on.”

The room fell silent.

Thancred was the first to break; he wheezed with laughter, dropping his head into his arms and shoulders shaking. Papalymo looked up with some concern at Yda, who was now staring wide-eyed at Kjelle as though the Viera woman had grown a second head.

“You— but— but you’re—”

Kjelle took another prim sip of tea to disguise her smile while Yda gestured helplessly.

“Well, _I_ happen to think she looks absolutely _radiant_ for a woman of her age,” Thancred managed between bouts of laughter, still half-collapsed against the table in mirth. The dark umber of Kjelle’s skintone thankfully hid whatever flush his words might have brought to her cheeks.

“Thank you, Thancred,” she said, with some difficulty.

“You look the same age as _me_ ,” Yda protested, pressing both hands to her cheeks. “You— you’re _ninety_ and you look the same age I do, how is this _fair_?”

Kjelle set down her emptied cup and pillowed her chin in her hand. “Yes, and if my aunts were any yalmstick to measure by, I shall for another—” here she trailed off, mock-thoughtfully, tapping a finger against her chin in deep thought “—three or four of your lifetimes, I imagine.”

Yda fell out of her seat.


	9. day 8: clamor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **clamour** _/ˈklamə/_  
>  _verb;_ to shout loudly and insistently  
>  _noun;_ a loud, continuous noise
> 
> V'rahna slips away from the Crystarium's celebrations. Thancred comes to find her. They... might need to talk.
> 
> (Leads on from prompt #3, 'muster'.)

Night returned to Norvrandt, and the Scions returned to the Crystarium.

The crowd awaiting them at the gates was hardly a surprise, and neither was the party that followed; despite the lateness of the hour, the city came alive, like a flower blossoming after moons without rain. The Wandering Stairs, often popular in the evenings as it was, suddenly thronged with people, the inhabitants of the Crystarium eager to celebrate victory and hear the tales the Scions had to tell.

And everyone, of course, wanted to hear what their beloved _Warrior of Darkness_ had to say.

Never mind that she was still bruised and aching after the fight against Hades; never mind that what had happened down in the Tempest was not a tale she wanted to repeat, not so soon; never mind that the press of people on all sides, their voices raised in a jubilant chorus, felt like someone taking a blacksmith’s file to her already-shredded nerves.

But they were so _expectant_ , so _grateful_. Who was she, to deny people what they were desperate for? She could practically hear Jehantel and Guydelot both declaring her a failure of a bard. So V’rahna told the story they wanted to hear, over and over - the tale of the Warrior of Darkness leading the Scions into battle against their mortal enemy, almost falling at the final hurdle only to prove triumphant in the end.

But the tale rang hollow, stripped of meaning; the people of the First wouldn’t understand if she’d explained the Ascians, Amaurot, the Sundering and Rejoining of the world - and so she clumsily excised it from the story, leaving behind the empty, sparkling faerie-tale they all desired.

It was easy enough, once the drinks truly started flowing, to slip away before anyone could wonder where she was going, or worse still, try and convince _her_ to drink as well.

The walkways above the market-stalls of the Musica Universalis were empty. V’rahna leaned against the railing, looking back towards the warm glow of the occupied tavern, the lights shining in almost every window of the Pendants, all contrasted against the cool blackness of the returned night, studded with myriad twinkling stars. Noise still carried up here from the celebrations, but it was muted, removed; here, at last, she had a moment to _think_.

She had brushed shoulders with death a thousand times before this, and would likely do so again a thousand times more. But something about this had shaken her more deeply than she had expected; what had confronted her was not mere _death_ \- her soul returning to the Lifestream and to Hydaelyn’s embrace before being ushered into the world anew - but _oblivion_. There would have been no release, not as a Lightwarden. She had come so close, standing on the very precipice, and it had been only Ardbert’s intervention that kept her from tumbling off the edge.

“I _thought_ I saw you slipping away.”

Thancred’s voice startled V’rahna abruptly from her thoughts. She turned to see him approaching, hands tucked casually into his pockets, gunblade missing, a tired smile upon his lips which she returned in kind. The sight of him still, as fatigued as she was, kindled something warm in her chest; when he stood beside her to lean upon the railing like she did, V’rahna found herself edging closer.

“I just wanted some time to think.” She gestured with one hand towards the Wandering Stairs, just as a cheer rose up. “I love the Crystarium and her people - really, I do - but...”

Thancred snorted in amusement. “They can be a little overwhelming, yes.” He twisted so that he faced away from the Stairs, his elbows propped against the railing; even slouched as they both were he had a few ilms of height on her, able to look down upon her with those warm hazel eyes. He reached out two fingers and smoothed a stray lock of hair out of her face before those same fingers skirted down, along the soft curve of her jaw. “A gil for your thoughts, my dear?”

The endearment made V’rahna’s cheeks burn, her tail curling against her calves. It was no different to the countless times he’d called her by it or by another other such term - but it had not had the _weight_ then that it now possessed, and he seemed to realise it only after the fact, hand dropping back to his side when all she wanted was for it to linger where it was and cradle her cheek.

V’rahna sucked in a breath and let it out as a sigh. The air between them felt charged, like a levinstorm brewing; she’d _kissed_ him less than a day prior and the memory yet burned. It hung between them, now, rendering the atmosphere - not awkward, exactly, more... _anticipatory_. A wave waiting to break upon the shore, a volcano that threatened to erupt. The world held its breath. Even the clamour of the Wandering Stairs seemed quieter, somehow.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Thancred said gently. “If you don’t want—”

“Did you mean it?” The words surprised even V’rahna herself, never mind that she’d said them to begin with; she closed her mouth so quickly her teeth clicked. “Or were you just— just humouring me because I was _dying_?”

The potential had plagued her ever since their return from the Tempest. That he might have indulged her this one kiss, knowing she was walking to her doom, some twisted form of _letting her die happy_ — one good memory to see her off, to ease her descent into mindless monstrosity— it could break her. To have waited and wanted for so long, only for her hopes of reciprocation to turn out hollow...

Thancred stared at her for a few long moments, eyes wide under the silver-grey curtain of his hair. “Do you really think that?” he murmured, standing up; for a moment V’rahna was terrified she’d offended him somehow, heart leaping into her throat even as she likewise turned to face him—

His hands enfolded hers. “I meant every word,” Thancred said. Gently, he pulled her in towards himself, lifting one of her hands towards his mouth. He kissed the bridge of her knuckles, eyes falling shut, bowing slightly; his breath ghosted warm across the back of her hand. “I meant _all_ of it,” he murmured.

_All of it?_

V’rahna’s breath caught in her throat and her eyes burned. “How long?” she found herself whispering, ears lying flat against her head, the fear giving way to a gentle awe. “Since when?”

Thancred hummed. A small smile, tender and heartrendingly genuine, caught at his lips. “I thought you were beautiful the day we met,” he murmured, “but it wasn’t until the banquet that I realised it was more than that. And then, well— you remember.”

_The waterway beneath Ul’dah; Thancred and Y’shtola beseeching both herself and Minfilia to leave them behind; her own stubborn refusal to abandon them to their fate only for Thancred to grab her hands in his own - like he was doing now - and beg for her to flee._

Oh yes, she remembered.

A weakly hysterical laugh bubbled from V’rahna’s lips. “What a pair of fools we make,” she managed, feeling tears sting at the corner of her eyes. “All this time, and we never— I was scared you’d say _no_ ,” she laughed, leaning in to butt her head gently against his chest. “Or I was scared you’d get hurt because of me, or— or just plain _scared_ , I think.”

“Worry not,” Thancred said, reaching one hand up to brush through the back of her hair. “I don’t intend to go anywhere. Not without you.”

Someone in the Crystarium had found fireworks; she could hear them going off, their bloom-and-burst casting light into the darkened markets. V’rahna could feel herself smiling, the tension knotted in her heart unfurling like those same fireworks, becoming something light, hopeful, something new and _warm_ —

“I love you.” The words came unbidden from her lips, but there, in that moment, they felt right.

Thancred leaned down, and his lips brushed hers in the briefest, palest shadow of the kiss they’d shared in Amaurot’s depths. “And I—”

“Do it _properly_ ,” V’rahna protested, feeling petulant - only to giggle when Thancred’s response was to lift her up, set her on the railing, and do exactly that.

The fireworks continued outside, uninterrupted... though neither of them particularly paid them any mind.


	10. day 9: lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **lush** _/lʌʃ/_  
>  _adjective;_ growing vigorously and luxuriantly, especially foliage.  
> A memory of a better time.

Once, long ago, there was a star. Upon the star dwelled a peaceful race of people with an innate, infinite grasp of the art of creation. Their shining jewel was the city of Amaurot, in all its splendor, and in the heart of the city there was a garden. It contained plants from all across the land - a wild and wonderful riot of colour, myriad shapes of foliage and fern and flower, chaos contained in neatly-kept borders.

The garden’s tender prided themself on the variety to be found, and could name each and every plant that grew there and where it originally grew. They even, in their spare time, drew up concepts for new plants, drawing inspiration from those which already existed and shaping them into works of art. It was their pride and joy, their own personal project; a memento of their journeys.

Hades hummed gently as he made his way through the dense foliage. The air was sweetly perfumed, the scent of a dozen varieties of flower reaching his nose and blending into something unique. He did not need to look at his feet; the winding roots of the trees which formed the garden’s backbone knew him and knew his tread, and knew to stay out of the way. He was focused entirely on the sweet, soft voice coming from the heart of the garden - the voice he would know anywhere, would love anywhere.

He emerged, at last, into a clearing, and there beheld the keeper of the garden. Short and slender, they dressed in plain robes, the hood pushed back to allow golden hair to flow freely across their shoulders and a pair of long, furred ears to twitch atop their head. In their cupped hands, the garden-keeper held a tiny cobalt-blue seedling, to which they sang in hushed tones as they lowered it into a hole in the earth.

_(their name was... what was it? why couldn’t he remember?)_

He wandered up behind the garden-keeper and, smiling, joined his voice to their own. The tune was an old one from their shared childhood; he knew the words as well as he knew his own soul. The garden-keeper startled, looking up with a smile of their own. He leaned down, and silenced the song with a tender kiss, carding his finger through their hair.

The garden-keeper _(they had a name, what was it, why was it so hard to remember)_ giggled into the kiss, reaching up to wind their fingers into the front of his robes, using that newfound grip to pull him down against them. Hades propped himself up on one forearm, his other hand tracing the gentle curve of his garden-keeper’s cheek, their jaw, down the slender column of their throat. His fingers ghosted over their pulse and they sighed with pleasure; he replaced the touch of his fingers with his mouth, kisses nipping enough to leave marks against the bronze skin, and the sigh deepened into a moan, golden eyes fluttering shut and one hand raking through his hair to encourage him.

Hades loved them best like this - in their garden, in Amaurot, held in the cradle of his arms as he expressed all the ways he wished to love them; the song they had sung before was replaced with cries of pleasure, his name falling like a litany from their lips. As their bodies entwined so too did their souls, the most intimate touch one could bestow upon another, so close it was hard to tell where Hades ended and his garden-keeper, his beloved, _(and why could he not remember their name)_ began.

Afterwards, they lay curled together on the spread blanket of their shed robes, tracing patterns on each other’s skin and singing softer songs, speaking of nothing that lay outside the garden. It was a rare moment of tranquillity - Hades not burdened by his duties, his garden-keeper not off on some wild adventure - a time only for the two of them, for which there was nothing Hades would not trade.

The stars in the sky shifted. He sat up, squinting into the dark as it grew brighter, as clouds began to swirl, as the stars shuddered and began to fall to the earth in streaks of light and a dreadful _Sound_ rose up around him, and as the stars fell they set the garden alight until the flames consumed everything, rising higher and higher and roaring all around until even the sky was burning and the garden-keeper was nowhere to be seen—

Emet-Selch woke up alone.

The garden lay around him, a ruined, scorched shell of what it had once been. The garden-keeper was dead, Sundered, never to return.

_(Come back, Azem, he begged; Persephone, Pandora, Prometheus; come back, please, don't leave me— )_

But the garden was silent, and Azem was gone.

_(Once, long ago, there was a star.)_


	11. day 10: avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **avail** _/əˈveɪl/_  
>  _verb;_ to help or benefit  
>  to take advantage of
> 
> Kjelle finds an unexpected delivery in her Pendants suite.

The Crystarium was, by and large, a city driven by what was _needed_. This was only to be expected, in a land so thoroughly ravaged by the Light; existence was a day-to-day struggle, resources stretched thin and then thinner still in the vain hope to simply live another day.

And yet there were luxuries still, against all odds. Sweet pastries where simpler fare would suffice; the Wandering Stairs’ well-stocked shelves to keep glasses full with round after round; workers taking a slightly longer lunch-break to walk in the Crystarium’s gardens and breathe their scent in deep. It was simply in the nature of mankind, Kjelle supposed, to seek pleasure where possible and create it where it could not be found.

She had awoken that morning in her Pendants suite to find an envelope sitting upon the long table where she took her meals. Slitting the paper open with a knife revealed two objects within: a letter, and a key much like the one that opened her own suite’s door. She set the key aside, after a brief inspection that told her little - besides the curiously-shaped sigil in the key’s grip - and read the letter.

_My friend,_  
_I pray you are well. With every Lightwarden defeated, Novrandt comes closer to truly healing, and for that, I cannot thank you enough. The day will come when her people no longer need to fear the Light, and it is my most fervent wish that you shall be there to see it. I may be unable to accompany on your adventures, but I am not without means to provide other forms of aid, no matter how insignificant it may be._

_I have heard from the Scions that your battles against the Eaters have left you feeling sore and stiff increasingly often as of late. This key opens the private baths located beneath the Pendants. The manager of suites can tell you more, but you can be assured of total privacy within, and I can confirm through personal experience the relaxing properties to be found in a good, hot soak._

_It may seem a frivolous thing, but please; I can think of none who deserve it more than you._

_Yours, ever and always,_  
_the Crystal Exarch._

It was written in the curling script of Eorzean, rather than the more angular letters common to Norvrandt; the Echo would have let her decipher it either way, she was certain, but there was a certain familiarity to the hand that made something at the base of her ears itch. Yet she had never seen the Exarch write anything down...

His letter spoke the truth, much as it pained her to admit it. Even there, standing half-dressed in the middle of the room as she read the letter over a second time, there was a deep, dull ache in her bones that refused to shift. Kjelle pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed - she hadn’t even told any of the Scions about it, so how had anyone _known_ in order to tell the _Exarch_ , of all people?

The key glinted in the morning light that shone through her window. Kjelle stared at it, squinting slightly; it sat just far enough away to make her wish for her glasses.

...Well, he had taken the time to have it delivered. It would be _rude_ not to accept.

* * *

The manager of suites had given her directions that seemed circuitous at best, but they at last led her to a nondescript door bearing the same strange, curling insignia borne upon the key. Kjelle stood before the door, feeling a strange sense of apprehension, waiting for the Exarch’s hooded frame to step out from behind the door and declare the whole thing some bizarre practical joke at her own expense.

(Not that she expected or even _wanted_ such a thing. The Exarch had been nothing but kind, thus far, in their every interaction.)

Hesitantly, Kjelle set the key into the lock and turned it; it clicked gently, but there was no fanfare, no sudden magical aura. It was a door and nothing greater.

She tucked the key back into her pocket and stepped inside, quickly shutting the heavy wooden door behind her. At once the air - far warmer inside than out - filled with a rich scent, strongly reminding her of the flora of Lakeland itself. She inhaled it for a few moments, nose twitching.

The room was dimly lit, but in a manner that suggested mood lighting more than a simple lack of lamps. The bath itself was set into the floor, trimmed with white stone and somehow already full almost to the brim, steam curling gently from the surface. A set of shelves stood near the entrance, bearing at least a dozen bottles as well as a variety of fluffy towels that would easily have wrapped around a Roegadyn, never mind herself.

Kjelle picked up a bottle. It was not labelled with a word, but with a picture: an orange, sliced in half to reveal the segmented flesh within. She uncapped it and hesitantly sniffed at the contents, and indeed, the scent that reached her was sweet and citrussy. She browsed the shelf, humming thoughtfully, until her eyes landed upon a bottle set slightly apart from the rest and labelled with what was, unmistakeably, a sprig or three of lavender.

“Perfect,” she murmured, scooping it up. She knelt down by the edge of the bath and, uncapping her chosen bottle, poured a generous helping into the water. Almost immediately the room filled with the delicate scent of lavender, and a wave of homesickness threatened to overwhelm her all at once; she was a grown woman now and still found herself longing for the beds of lavender that had once bloomed outside her village.

The Exarch’s note had promised _“total privacy”_ , and she had no reason not to trust his word on the matter, yet still Kjelle found herself glancing around warily as she slipped out of her clothing. Each article she folded and set neatly onto a spare spot on the shelf, before perching on the bath’s edge and glancing around one more time.

The water was beautifully, almost _decadently_ hot. Kjelle let out an involuntary groan as she slipped into the water ilm-by-ilm, letting it rise up until she was seated upon a hidden seat carved into the side of the bath and the water came almost to her shoulders. Immersed in it as she was, the air now smelled so strongly of lavender it made her head spin, and a froth of bubbles now coated the surface.

With a sigh, Kjelle leaned back and closed her eyes. Ever since she’d struck down Titania, almost every day had been plagued with stiffness, with sore joints that no amount of healing ever seemed to ease. She was not nearly the fool the others must have assumed she was, though; she was aware of her body’s aether, and the Light slowly eating away at it.

But there was no other way forward. No path that would not damn _someone_ who dared walk upon it.

Kjelle sighed, letting the fragrance of lavender fill her nose. The water was soothing and warm, and she had nowhere better to be. Perhaps this was enough, to accept luxuries when they were given to her - to take aid when it was offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am by no means happy with how this prompt turned out but fuck it, it's up and officially not my problem any more


	12. day 11: ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ultracrepidarian** _/ˌʌltrəˌkrɛpɪˈdɛəriən/_  
>  _noun;_ one who gives opinions or advice on matters outside the scope of their own knowledge.
> 
> An uncomfortable conversation between the Crystal Exarch and his young ward.

When he had initially taken Lyna in as a ward, the Exarch had not considered that there might be certain _challenges_ to face. He had accounted for matters of housing, and education, and ensuring she remained socially active with other children of a similar age. When nightmares had plagued her, he had eased them; when she had questions, he had done his best to answer (unless, of course, they concerned the Tower or himself). She had grown from a frightened little girl into what he estimated was the Viis equivalent of a young woman... and this was where the problem lay.

“You wished to speak with me, grandfather?” Lyna poked her head around the door to his office, all bright-eyed and guileless in the way only a young teenager could manage. “I’m done with my lessons for the day, so...”

The Exarch, who had been up until this moment slouched in his chair behind the desk where he did most of his paperwork, straightened up with a start. “Ah, yes, Lyna,” he said, as though he had only just noticed her arrival and had not, in fact, been dreading it for the past bell or two. (Three, actually. He’d gotten shockingly little done in the meantime.) “Do come in.” He gestured to the desk, and the chair sat on its opposite side.

He’d set out a Boilmaster and two cups, and it provided him with something to do with his hands while Lyna let herself into his office and sat down. One cup for himself, one cup for Lyna; the scene was familiar, as well-trod as a shoe he’d worn a thousand times before. He brought the cup to his lips for the first taste of the tea within and strove to think about anything except the book tucked into the bottom-left drawer of his desk.

Lyna’s hands fidgeted nervously in the hem of her shirt. “W-What is this about?” she asked uncertainly, eyes skirting around the room, and the Exarch realised with a sinking sensation: he could put this off no longer. He set the tea down and steepled his fingers.

“Lyna,” he said, mouth as dry as Amh Araeng in high summer. He very much wanted to pick the tea back up. “You, ah— your fourteenth nameday is coming soon, is it not?” A bead of sweat trickled down his temple, thankfully hidden by the edge of his hood and the enchanted darkness laid across his brow.

“It is, grandfather.” Lyna’s head dipped, and she laced her fingers together in her lap, fidgeting with the blunt edges of her nails. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” He said it a little louder than he meant to and winced when Lyna flinched, her ears flicking back briefly. “No, I... I simply wished to speak to you.” He brought his steepled fingers to his lips. “About... _things_.”

“Things,” the young Viis repeated flatly, looking up.

“ _Things_ , yes.” The Exarch coughed unsubtly into one curled fist. “Er... are you— that is, have any of the other children... caught your eye? At all?”

“Caught my— _what_?” A vivid blush caught high on Lyna’s cheeks and she stared, wide-eyed, at the Exarch, who at that moment was looking very much like he wished the Tower would consume him whole right there and then and save him from the rest of the conversation.

Unfortunately, it did not, leaving the Exarch to simply sink lower in his chair. “I mean—how to phrase this— _romantically_?” His voice rose, wobbling, into an uncertain tone.

The problem at hand was that he, as a young man, had not been... particularly _active_ , one might say, in the fields of romance. G’raha Tia’s forays into wooing his fellow scholars had failed to bear fruit on every occasion, and whatever literature Sharlayan had had on the subject had not been especially illuminating. Well, no; it _had_ been, but not in the way one would dare repeat to a girl of not-quite-fourteen summers, much less one who saw you as family.

Lyna had gone very pale, even accounting for the dusky tone of her skin and the ever-present azure lighting within the Tower. “Grandfather,” she whispered, sounding somewhere between mortified and confused. “ _Why_.”

The Exarch settled his face into his hands. “I thought,” he began, voice still wobbling, “you might need to know— certain things. About. R-relationships, and, the things— the _activities_ involved in relationships, and, and such.” In lieu of scrubbing his hands through his hair he reached up and grasped the front edge of his hood, pulling it down over his face. “You are growing up and that is _fine_ , that is _natural_ , I simply wished to—”

“Please stop talking,” Lyna said faintly. Her eyes had taken on a peculiar glaze, staring far into the distance. “ _Please_.”

“I have a book,” the Exarch protested. “I— you could borrow it. It was very helpful.” His voice had taken on a pleading, desperate tone, though one muffled partially by the material of his hood as he pulled it lower and lower over his face.

Lyna stood up. The majority of her face had flushed a deep red by now, though she was still glassy-eyed. “I can just go to Spagyrics,” she said far too quickly, practically tripping over her tongue. “Please, I’ll just— I’m certain the healers can— _give advice_ if it is needed.”

The Exarch finally let go of his hood and sunk forward, pressing his forehead to the polished wood. “That might be for the best,” he wheezed.

Lyna had never left his office quite so quickly before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to GingerFox from the bookclub server for the idea for this prompt!


	13. day 12: tooth and nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **tooth and nail**  
>  _adverb;_ to fight strenuously with all of one's resources.
> 
> The final moments of the Sixth Astral Era, as seen through V'rahna's eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for descriptions of violence, but nothing gets TOO gory.

The plains of Carteneau had been beautiful, once; possessed of an ethereal quality ever since the fall of the Agrius had seeded the landscape with crystalline growths. Now it was a battlefield for one of the largest clashes Eorzea had ever beheld, and it was chaos incarnate. The air was filled with the stink of smoke and gore and the sound of screaming - man and chocobo and warmachina alike, all of them shrieking either in warcries or in dying. And above it all, the moon continued to fall.

V’rahna’s hands shook on the grip of her bow as she darted from one fight to the next. It felt like she’d been fighting tooth and nail forever, barely stopping even to catch her breath before moving on; her bow may have been her greatest asset, but the quiver strapped to her hip was beginning to feel alarmingly empty, and she feared the moment she reached down for another arrow and her fingers found only air. Even her aether felt over-stretched, pushed almost to the point of exhaustion and leaving her sight to swim dizzyingly.

But the moon was still falling, and the Garleans still advanced, and that meant she had to _keep fighting_.

And speaking of advancing Garleans—

V’rahna ducked behind the fallen carcass of a magitek reaper, fumbling at her hip and plucking three arrows from her quiver. She slid two between her knuckles and nocked the third, hands trembling. Garlean armour would prove impervious to arrows, under most circumstances- their thick plating meaning projectiles would simply bounce off - but their engineers apparently had never accounted for the force of an aetherically-imbued shot. A fatal mistake.

She scrambled up on top of the reaper, tail thrashing as she fought to keep her balance, and took aim. With a whisper of aether, the arrowheads ignited; V’rahna pulled back her bowstring, breathed a silent prayer to the Warden, and fired all three shots, one after the other. One for the Garlean footsoldier encroaching on a conjurer in the middle of healing a marauder’s wounds; one for the pilot of a reaper in mid-charge, punching through the left side of his goggles and sending him sprawling back over the cockpit; the third she fired into the still-glowing barrel of the reaper’s main cannon, a spark that, moments later, caused the warmachina to detonate in a blossom of flame and smoke.

_The Echo’s warning shrieked through her skull, almost a matching pulse of heat and light behind her eyes—_

V’rahna threw herself backwards without thinking, pure instinct overriding any higher thought or reasoning, and she landed in the mud with a strangled cry, all the breath instantly punched from her lungs like one of the Twelve had reached down through the smoke and folded her within Their crushing grip.

Not a moment too soon, as a crackling hail of gunblade fire passed clean through the space she had occupied only moments prior. It would surely have shredded her, Blessing or no; in that moment, the young miqo’te had never been more grateful for the Echo. She sucked in as deep a breath as she could manage, retching as the stench of smoke and charred flesh hit the back of her throat and caused her to stagger in the middle of hauling herself upright.

She chanced a glance upwards.

Dalamud seemed to fill the entire sky. It was close enough now to see the seams in a surface now obviously artificial, the whole surface glowing cherry-hot like a blacksmith’s commission pulled fresh from the forge. It still shed great chunks of itself, pieces of plating stripping away and arcing off in streaks of light that made some unknowable emotion swell painfully behind V’rahna’s already-sore ribs.

Great spurs of steel jutted like broken bones from Dalamud’s surface, their surfaces bearing the same blue latticework that wound across the moon itself. As V’rahna watched, momentarily transfixed, the spurs began to slide outwards, like keys from locks, like javelins descending to the battlefield.

One of them, she realised too late, was aiming too close.

The shockwave as the Allagan spire made impact knocked her from her feet again, a billowing cloud rolling across the battlefield; she yelped, rolling through the mud and losing her grip on her bow in the chaos. The sole saving grace was that it had flattened everybody, even the warmachina losing their footing.

V’rahna lay there, staring up into the sky, watching the seams in Dalamud’s surface grow wider - cracks becoming chasms, glowing with an unearthly light - and in the final moments of the Era as it was, a terrible truth formed within the miqo’te adventurer’s mind.

Dalamud was _not_ a moon.

It was an _egg_ , and she was watching it _hatch_.


	14. day 13: nightmare (free day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **nightmare** _/ˈnʌɪtmɛː/_  
>  _noun;_ a frightening or unpleasant dream.  
>  a very unpleasant or frightening experience or prospect.
> 
> The Rhotano Sea, circa 1552 6AS.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CW: drowning, child in peril**

The Naeuri family had spent nearly an entire moon cooped up in the cargo hold of a small merchant vessel, its goods bound for the distant land of Eorzea. It was the only way to escape the reach of the Garlean Empire, Yasutori knew; while his parents had done their best to shield him from to knowledge, he was no fool even at the tender age of seven summers, and nor was he blind to the disappearances in their once-sleepy village, or deaf to the whispers of the elders. ‘Twas only a matter of time - or so his mama and papa had murmured, when they thought Yasu couldn’t hear - before the Garleans turned their attention to them, too.

The worst so far had been the initial departure from port. Soldiers in strange armour and masks had stormed aboard the merchant-ship and demanded to search its hold, and the captain had obliged - it might have been luck, or fate, or the kami’s favour, but the Garleans had not searched well enough to uncover the three terrified au ra cowering inside empty crates, and so the Naeuri family had escaped detection.

Since then, there had been precious little to break the monotony, with Yasu and his parents told to keep below-deck in the cargo hold whenever possible. It was beginning to make the young auri boy’s scales itch. He missed fresh air and the wind on his face, but above all, he missed the stars.

That night, as his parents slept through the deepest part of the night, curled safe in each others’ embrace, he slipped through the creaking halls of the ship’s interior with bated breath. It wasn’t that he’d be punished, exactly, for leaving the hold, but he knew there would be Consequences if anyone who wasn’t part of the crew saw him above-deck.

The ship was eerily silent as he made his way out onto the main deck, but he pushed that thought aside in favour of scampering across to the nearest railing. He breathed deep of the crisp, blessedly cold air, stubby claws digging into the soft, salt-soaked wood of the railing - and then he craned his head back and stared up, and up, and _up_.

The endless vault of the heavens stretched out above, night’s pitch-black canvas studded with innumerable glinting stars, like gemstones affixed to a noble lady’s dress. Dark smudges of clouds churned on the horizon, but Yasu paid them no mind, his attention wholly consumed by the clouds of brightly-coloured dust that seemed to shimmer _beyond_ the stars, somehow - billowing and curling in a vivid arc across the darkness, swirls of paint from a master artisan’s brush.

Were these the same stars he had seen in Doma? The same stars he had seen while sprawled in the grass outside their home? The same stars his mother had pointed out to him, night after night, with his head pillowed in her lap while she told him about all of the legendary heroes the kami had enshrined in the heavens?

Were these the same stars that had glittered overhead, cold and impassive, the night they’d been forced to flee, fearing the Garleans might hound their every step?

Yasutori shivered. The air suddenly felt colder, and he rubbed both hands quickly over his bare arms, gooseflesh rising wherever scales did not cover. The moment passed quickly, and undaunted, he scrambled higher, clambering onto the railing and reaching up for the very brightest of the stars, as though if he only stretched out his claws far enough he might be able to clasp his hand around it and pull it down to get a better look.

And then, with a sound like a thousand hammers on a thousand anvils, the world _shook_. Everything went white for a moment, the air itself crackling, and Yasu let out a frightened shriek as the ship bucked underneath him—

and he was falling.

It seemed to last forever, until, all at once, it ended. He punched through the surface of the water, the force of his fall thrusting him beneath the surface and leaving bubbles trailing in his wake. Impact crushed the air from his lungs and left everything fuzzy and dark for several seconds while he thrashed, soundless and instinctive, struggling back to the surface.

The stars were gone. In their place, swirling stormclouds churned, iron-grey so thick that it blotted out even the moon’s radiance. Flashes of levin arced across the sky, piercing the thick shroud wrapped about the heavens and setting the air ringing with great crashes and quakes. Every bolt left afterimages seared into Yasutori’s vision.

He struggled fruitlessly. It was impossible for him to stay afloat; every time he crested the surface of the water, attempting to suck in a desperate lungful of air, the waves rose up and shoved him below once more, cold and crushing, and any breath he had gained left him in a flurry of bubbles. The taste of ocean salt was overwhelming, mixing with the iron tang of his own blood at the back of his throat.

The ship had splintered apart. In what felt like moments it had simply _shattered_ , the sea’s fury breaking it to pieces that even now the waves attempted to hungrily swallow; as if it was not enough that he could barely keep his head above the water, the vicious roll of the tide tossed him, ragdoll-limp, aganst the shards of hull and splintered crates. There were other, softer shapes in the water, their forms highlighted by the levinstorm raging overhead. Yasu glimpsed brightly-coloured fabric drenched dark, but with seawater or blood he could not tell in the darkness.

He screamed whenever the waves gave him the chance to do so. His voice cracked desperately; he was crying, he was certain, but the sea washed away the tears before they could form and his eyes were stinging so much already that it was impossible to tell. There came no response: not from his mother, nor his father, not even the crew. Yasutori called out to every kami he could remember from his mother’s lessons, but the heavens were silent save for the rolling thunder.

He was alone.

Alone, and rapidly tiring. He could barely keep his head above the waves, now, swallowing mouthfuls of iron-tasting seawater and choking on it. The crushing pressure was cold and dark, the ocean’s relentless fury shoving him below the surface and now he lacked the strength to claw his way back up. Everything was slow and heavy, his heart hammering in his chest, and he couldn’t breathe—

_he couldn’t breathe—_

_he couldn’t—_

Yasutori woke with a strangled sob.


	15. day 14: part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **part** _/pɑːt/_  
>  _noun;_ a piece of a greater whole.  
>  _verb;_ to be separated from something.
> 
> Hades reflects on what has been lost, and the colour of a sunset.

At first, these wretched souls are so fragmented as to appear colourless, even to his eye. There is no subtlety of hue to discern one from another, and the agony of Amaurot lost still hangs over him heavier than any funerary shroud. He hates them, these insignificant splinters; there is naught of them for him to recognise, so weak and broken as they all are.

They lost _everything_ in the Sundering. To have fallen so far from the glory of Amaurot, those halcyon days where nobody was left wanting, to now scrabble in the mud and fight for food, for land, for shelter— it sparks not pity in his breast but revulsion.

And yet, and yet, and _yet_.

He takes a mortal’s shape for his own, slipping neatly into their skin as neatly and easily as drawing old, familiar robes around his shoulders. He stares at the mortal’s face in the surface of the water and sneers; it is child’s play to reshape bone and flesh, to adjust the hue of skin and hair until he recognises the face looking back at him.

It is the eyes that he lingers on for the longest. He thinks of sunset eyes, their brilliance unlike any gem no matter how artfully Created, endless pools of honeyed gold that he could - that he _had_ , many times - lose himself within. He snaps his fingers, opens his eyes to regard himself in the mirror once again—

Pale yellow, devoid of deeper hues; a _mockery_ of what he remembered and yet, apparently, all that this mortal form is capable of.

A disappointment.

_(He wears many faces, in the years to come, but the eyes remain.)_

* * *

After the failure of the Thirteenth come the triumphs. The Fifth, the Twelfth, the Second: with each Rejoining they grow closer to their goal, and the souls around him grow brighter in their colours.

It had been torment enough to recognise nothing in the splintered souls that surrounded him; it is, somehow, _worse_ , to look around himself now and wonder if he is looking at the faded ghosts of the people he had once known and loved, even his sharp sight struggling to differentiate the many hues in their pallid states.

_(Hythlodaeus, he is sure, would not have struggled nearly so much. But Hythlodaeus is gone. Everyone is gone.)_

More than once, as he nudges the pieces into place within the Allagan Empire - the Empire he moulded with his own hands now poised to tip over the edge - he wonders if such a hands-on approach is worth it. If it is worth enduring the pain, the disappointment, the _resentment_ inherent in living and working and breathing amongst these fragile facsimiles playing at life.

But each time he remembers. They must have found something of worth in such fleeting lives, something worth standing up for, something they loved more dearly than Amaurot - more dearly than him - and he is determined, someday, to find out what it is.

* * *

The first time he glimpses them is the day the Allagan Empire destroys itself.

Xande stands atop the Crystal Tower, staring up at the shape of Dalamud in the sky, fists clenched as the Tower draws power down to the firmament. The apparatus around him hums with energy, eagerly awaiting the moment of truth.

_(It is too much. He saw to the calculations himself; made sure that the Allagans would over-reach, that Xande in his desperation would tear his Empire apart.)_

As is the nature of mankind, where there is perceived to be a villain, so too shall a hero rise up.

The girl is tall, stocky, with brown skin and curly hair so dark it appears black in Dalamud’s haunting glow. She stands with her allies, all of them armed to the teeth with steel and spell, and when he looks into her eyes he sees—

a sunset.

Warmth and radiance, as he remembered, but muted; a fire banked down to glowing coals, a shadow of what once had been.

There is a fight, hero against villain, but it is all for naught. The Calamity comes; the Allagan Empire falls; the Third shard returns to the Source.

* * *

He sees them, again and again, in the eras that follow. Never whole, never perfect, never quite as he remembers them. Sometimes they are tall, sometimes they are short; sometimes they are blonde or brunette or red-headed or any other colour entirely; sometimes they are a man, sometimes a woman, sometimes neither at all, and this is the only way in which they resemble themself as they had been.

Their eyes are never the same.

* * *

And as he stands upon the stage and takes his final bow, the curtain ready to fall, he sees them, and sees them, and knows—

 _Azem._ Not whole, never whole, but close enough that he can pretend—

_Remember us—_

The curtain falls.


	16. day 15: ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ache** _/eɪk/_  
>  _noun;_ a continuous or prolonged dull pain in a part of one's body.  
>  an emotion experienced with painful or bittersweet intensity.  
>  _verb;_ to feel an intense desire for.  
>  to feel intense sadness or compassion.
> 
> Thancred, fading memories, and what he might have had.

Just to be clear: it isn’t that Thancred has a poor memory. He’s always had to be sharp, his entire life; a Sharlayan student cannot afford to forget in the middle of their examinations, and both an eye for detail and the wits to recall said details at a moment are invaluable to a spy. Even as a Limsan wharf-rat, remembering the guards’ patrols had been just as important as being light on his feet and quick-fingered.

And yet the longer he stays here on the First - separated from his body, anchored by the thinnest unspooling thread of aether - the foggier his memories become.

The last thing he remembers of the Source, before the darkness had swallowed him up and spat him out into this world of Light, is the meeting in Ala Mhigo. Discussing plans to destabilise the Garleans and throw them into enough chaos to enable a direct strike - his own plan, laid out carefully. He remembers V’rahna, leaning forward in her seat to see past Y’shtola, smiling at him so warmly, so proudly, that it had been impossible not to return the gesture—

—and then the splitting pain in his temples, the brief sensation of failing, and the voice he now knew to be the Exarch’s—

and then he’d arrived here. And five years later, here he still is.

As Thancred lies awake in his bed, he turns that last memory over and over in his head like a river tossing a stone. He has many similar memories, moments tucked away in his mind spanning the years he has known Eorzea’s beloved Warrior of Light; it feels almost as if reviewing them like this, sparking that old pain the way one pokes at a fading bruise or a missing tooth, will keep them from fading like everything else.

He loves her, he knows that now; had loved her long before this separation, to tell the truth. But he had kept his distance, held his tongue, bided his time. V’rahna was the Warrior of Light, and the burden on her shoulders was heavy enough without adding his feelings into the mix. And, besides - he had rather blown any chance he had with his recurring habit of being taken away. First Lahabrea, then the banquet, and now this. ( _If nothing else,_ Thancred muses, _the universe knows how to up the ante._ )

It would be hard not to love her. Her kindness and compassion - always worried for others before herself in any given situation, always willing to lend aid or a gentle word where needed. Her determination, that fire in her crimson eyes that drove her on and on and on, never giving up. And it was the little things, too; the way she hummed to herself whenever things were quiet, the little squint whenever she smiled as though the emotion was too much for her mouth alone, the way that, when she was happy, it burst out of her so much that she would clap and wave her hands and stamp the floor and lash her tail. When faced with such a radiant beacon, how could he fail to be drawn towards her light?

Minfilia had asked him about V’rahna once and only once. Almost a year ago, now. He’d been deep in his cups at the time - a risk, certainly, but old habits died hard and he had simply wished not to think for a little while - and that had, perhaps, emboldened the girl.

He remembers staring across the barroom at a mystel woman curled in a corner, leaning against a hume man while they spoke in tones so hushed he hadn’t been able to hear. Her hair was too light for the true copper he remembered of V’rahna’s, her skin a shade or two too pale - but the resemblance had been there and it had pulled at him like a weight tied to his ankles.

 _“You said you’re not from Norvrandt,”_ she’d started, hesitant; he ought to have stopped her then, before the next words could come out. _“Did you... was there someone special, where you came from?”_

Staring up at the ceiling, alone with only his memories for company, Thancred thinks about her words, thinks about the pain lingering like an old wound, an ache that refuses to fade five years on, and thinks—

_There could have been. But that chance is long behind me, now._


	17. day 16: lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **lucubration** _/ˌluːkjʊˈbreɪʃ(ə)n/_  
>  _noun;_ writing or study, particularly by lamplight.
> 
> In a rare moment of quiet, Yasu makes some progress in learning to read.

The midnight bell had sounded long ago; it was closer now to dawn than to dusk, and yet Aymeric - knowing full well he would be sore and stiff come morning - found himself reluctant to rouse from his current spot in his study. The couch under him was quite comfortable, the air heavy and warm; he was happy to lounge here, loose-limbed and pliant, occupying the bulk of the space on the couch set before the grand fireplace.

It would not have been _half_ so enjoyable, of course, without the company. This was a rare moment of peace and quiet, with nothing threatening to destroy the realm at that precise moment, and so it found the Warrior of Light, the saviour of Eorzea multiple times over, vanquisher of Nidhogg, with a book in his lap, frowning down at it as though all he wanted was to pitch the volume into the fireplace.

His brow was furrowed, cheek propped against one curled fist; the firelight caught against the angles of his face, lending a nigh-ethereal luster to bronze skin and ivory scales. His lips moved near-soundlessly, and Aymeric - from his vantage point, head pillowed against Yasutori’s thigh, the auri man’s tail draped heavy across the line of Aymeric’s body - was too warm and comfortable to bother trying to disguise the way his eyes were drawn to the motion.

Yasutori hummed to himself briefly, pausing over a particularly difficult section. The fingers of his free hand worked slow circles against Aymeric’s scalp, tugging lightly at the strands of hair and only adding to the languid ease Aymeric felt in that moment.

“Have I mentioned yet,” Yasu grumbled, “how much I _hate_ Ishgardian authors?” He lifted his hand from Aymeric’s hair - and the noble and most esteemed Speaker of the House whined petulantly at the loss - to tap a blunted claw against the page. “There’s no way this is a word.”

Aymeric laughed softly. “Sound it out, love,” he murmured, “like we practised.”

Yasu growled something under his breath and wrinkled his nose, the motion making the scales there bunch up strangely before they smoothed once more. “Low... low- _cue_...” A brief shake of the head. “No, there’s an ‘A’ here, that doesn’t... low- _key_? Low- _kay_?”

Aymeric struggled to suppress a smile. “The latter,” he offered, reaching up to pull Yasu’s hand back into his hair and near-purring with satisfaction as those claws continued to circle slowly across his scalp. “Though it’s more of a _kway_ sound, if I recall.”

A deep, put-upon sigh, chased by an irritable rumble that Aymeric felt reverberate through him more than he actually heard it. “That’s bullshit,” Yasu huffed. “This entire word is bullshit.”

Aymeric lifted both hands, arcing them above himself in vague imitation of a rainbow. “Welcome to Ishgard, love,” he said, unable to keep the smile from his face this time, amusement bleeding through into his tone. “I would have thought you learned your lesson the day you found out how Haurchefant’s name is spelled.”

"Ugh. Don't remind me. Why so many letters, if you won't _say_ half of them?"

He cracked open one eye just in time to see Yasu roll his own, the glow of his limbal rings casting azure light cross his cheekbones for a moment. “Fine, fine. So. _Low-kway—_ oh, I know this part, I’ve seen that before.”

“Go on...?”

“ _Low-kway-shuss._ Loquacious?” Yasu’s nose crinkled again. “That doesn’t sound right.” He sighed deeply, settling back against the plush cushions of the couch. “Bloody _Echo_ ,” he grumbled, running a claw up along Aymeric’s ear and making the elezen shiver. “Sure, I can understand _every Spoken language_ , but it doesn’t do a damned thing for _reading_ ‘em, apparently.”

They would have to retire for bed at some point, Aymeric knew; sleeping in the study was hardly the most comfortable spot, and would afford them little actual rest in any case. But for now he was content to remain where he was, listening as Yasu began to read from the book once more, the rough gravel of his voice slow and uncertain.

He let that voice pull him gently into darkness, and found that his dreams were - for a change - wholly pleasant.


	18. day 17: fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **fade** _/feɪd/_  
>  _verb;_ to gradually grow faint and disappear.
> 
> After the fight against Ranj'it, V'rahna realises how much might have been lost.
> 
> [Spoilers for the level 77 MSQ "Full Steam Ahead".]

> _**Souldeep Invisibility:** Having severed the flow of life-sustaining aether, your presence is completely concealed but you are subject to the effects of Fading Fast and Vital Sign._
> 
> _**Vital Sign:** Severing the flow of life-sustaining aether in order to avoid detection has damaged the body's vital functions. Movement speed is severely decreased._
> 
> _**Fading Fast:** Reduction of life-sustaining aether by concealment techniques is placing strain on the body. **Failure to remove this effect will result in KO.**_

* * *

“I thought I was leaving you to die,” V’rahna whispers into the silence fallen between them. Her voice cracks and wavers, uncertainty splitting it neatly down the middle, and Thancred opens one eye to peer back up at her from his perch on the rickety old steps; she’s not sure, entirely, of what he sees there, but she can guess from the way her ears are pinned back, the upset twist of her lips, the back-and-forth thrash of her tail beside her ankles. “If you’d died, Thancred, I—”

“I didn’t,” he reminds her, gently. “Ranj’it would have to try harder than _that_ to keep me down.” He reaches up to grasp her hands with his own, presses a gentlemanly kiss to the knuckles that sends a blush to her cheeks, and rises up just enough that he can press her palm to his heart. Even through the thick leather of his armour, she thinks she can feel his heartbeat, strong and steady. “I’m still here.”

V’rahna swallows hard, feels her throat click; there are still tears threatening to spill from behind her eyes. “But your _aether_ ,” she says, voice wet. “I— I’m not a scholar, not like you or the others, but— if you were flesh and blood it would have been bad enough, and you’re just a _soul_ here on the First—”

She thinks, then, about how it must have felt to sever his own aether channels. Fatal to a corporeal form, as Black Rose’s very existence proves, but to someone who was merely the projection of a soul - all she can see in her mind’s eye is Thancred fading away between one breath, one heartbeat, and the next, vanishing into less than dust on the wind.

There would have been no body to find. Perhaps only the empty shell of his clothing, his gunblade, beaten and scratched, lying in the dust. And back on the Source: would his body have perished, bereft of a link to his soul? Or would it simply continue as it was now, trapped in a slumber from which there was no longer any way to wake, the lamps left on with nobody home? And - _gods_ , Krile, Tataru, Riol and the rest of the Scions, they would have had no context, no reason. Simply there one moment and then gone the next. Would they have begun to fear for the others the same way?

The dam breaks. V’rahna’s knees tremble a moment before they give out completely and she simply drops where she stands, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes as though she can do anything to stem the flood of tears. Her crying is ugly, snotty, gasping for breath and she hunches her shoulders in like a shield from the outside world.

She feels Thancred kneel down in front of her, feels his arms carefully embrace her and pull her against him; he smells of sweat and dust and the tang of blood all overlaid by the sharp levinbolt ozone of aethergauge cartridges. Normally it’s a pleasant smell but it’s almost overwhelming, now, a sign of just how hard he’d fought back against Ranj’it. He hushes her, voice gone soft and soothing, his chin pressed into the crown of her head right between her ears, her whole body caged in by his own.

“ _Never_ do that again,” she gasps, bunting her forehead against his chest, screwing her eyes shut. “Please, Thancred, _please_ , don’t— don’t _risk_ yourself like that, not _ever_ , do you hear me—” the words fragmented, broken up by her frantic attempts to breathe around the tears. Risking his life - that’s something they all do on a daily basis, that’s, not fine but expected— but for him to wager his very _essence_ —

“I hear you,” he murmurs, and V’rahna sucks in a breath - only to lose it immediately to another sob.

It feels like a long, long time before they finally get moving again. Malikah’s Well, and the fourth Lightwarden, awaits.


	19. day 18: panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **panglossian** _/pænˈɡlɒsɪən/_  
>  _adjective;_ naively, unreasonably optimistic.
> 
> Because sometimes, "everything is going to be okay" really _is_ a lie.

Light - vibrant, glaring, _everlasting_ Light - streamed in through the open shutters of a Pendants suite. The shadows it cast seemed all the starker, as though determined to make their mark in a world so heavily lit; wherever the Light fell it seemed to leech the colour and vitality from the scene.

The suite itself was in ruins. Here, the glamour dresser overturned, its mirror smashed; there, the armoire tipped onto its back with every drawer pulled out, left gutted and surrounded with strewn splinters of wood. The bedsheets were a tangled, shredded mess, and the couch near the door had fared little better, bereft of its cushions and its backing split open with long, claw-like gouges. Patches of the room seemed to have been charred; some parts still smouldered gently.

In the center of the room - as though haloed by the destruction - lay a single viera, gasping for breath and exhausted.

Kjelle woke slowly. It was less a wake from _slumber_ and more - coming back to herself in fuzzy pieces, every limb weighted down by exhaustion. She made a weak, rasping noise in the back of her throat, struggling to get all four limbs co-ordinated. Her efforts were hampered, somewhat, by the occasional brief spasm as aftershocks of Light wracked her form.

Slowly - literally _painfully_ slowly - she uncurled from her fetal position upon the tiles, but did not rise. She pried open one eye and then the other; her head was pounding, her mouth dry and yet tasting strongly of her own blood. The dull ache on the floor of her mouth told her she’d probably bitten her own tongue, and quite badly, though it felt _intact_ otherwise. Her aether, of course, felt seared, overwhelmed, scorched by Light.

Though she could not remember the last few minutes - only the stabbing pain as the Light rose up and attempted to overwhelm her, and then nothing until waking here on the floor - Kjelle knew, regardless, what had happened.

Her sisters would have called it a _Mist frenzy_. Her peers in Sharlayan would have favoured the term _aether sickness_. Whatever one chose to call it, the condition was rare; the concentrations of Mist, of aether, required to trigger a frenzy were such that those viera who found themselves afflicted were more likely to simply die outright, or else perish while still berserk.

But then again, her sisters had never had the Blessing of Light forcing them to weather the storm, had they?

Kjelle blinked fuzzily. A glint caught her attention, partway between herself and the window. It took her a moment of squinting to recognise the shine for what it was: an amethyst, small enough to fit in her palm, glittering as Light streamed through its facets and refracted in the gem’s core. Her heart leapt into her throat.

With what seemed an impossible degree of effort, Kjelle stretched her arm towards the gemstone. Most of the skin on her arm was speckled pale, the Light leeching all the rich colour from her skin, but she ignored it, reaching, reaching, _reaching_ —

“ _Fjola_ ,” she whimpered, letting loose a thin curl of aether as she had done countless times before—

and the amethyst burst in a flash of light. Her carbuncle materialised snout-first, the long, sinuous lines of the aetheric construct pulling together in a rippling stream of violet and rose. Kjelle’s heart soared as she reached for Fjola’s velvety fur, desperate for comfort... only for the carbuncle to immediately _yelp_ and skitter away, seeking refuge underneath the ruined couch. The large, dark eyes that stared back at her were watery and terrified.

Wait. She remembered Fjola having curled up on her chest, purring to try and ease the pain of the Light, right before she’d blacked out - and if she’d been dispersed back to gem-form, then—

Then that meant _Kjelle_ had— had—

“ _Oh_ ,” the viera whispered, her voice breaking. She twitched her fingers, a weak and barely-there gesture that nonetheless sent Fjola flinching further underneath the couch. Violet light bled out of the darkness and was immediately swallowed whole in the cruel, remorseless glare of the Light beyond the window.

“Fjola,” she called again, soft and weak. “It’s okay, darling, I... I’m not... I’m _better_ , now.” She tried to smile, dragging one arm underneath her to sit up; she wasn’t sure how successful the expression was. “Mama’s okay.”

Fjola whined in fear, her long, fluffy ears pressing flat against her head. Across the aetheric link Kjelle felt the carbuncle’s fear and hesitation and she swallowed, feeling an indescribably ache in her chest; she could hardly fault Fjola for being so scared, not after what she had, presumably, seen while Kjelle was Mist-frenzied.

What Kjelle must have _done_ to her.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, finally managing to sit up. “I’m so sorry, little one, I — I promise it won’t happen again.” She smiled again when Fjola - still squeaking softly, constantly - padded forth from her hiding spot, stretching out as long as possible to sniff at Kjelle’s bleached-pale fingers. “I _promise_.”

A long, tense moment followed. Fjola slunk closer in the tiniest of steps before finally clambering into Kjelle’s lap, and the scholar could have wept with joy. She wrapped bother arms around the purple carbuncle, her whole body trembling, whispering apologies and promises into the crown of her head. Fjola let out a long, rumbling purr, suffused with healing aether, and— and for a moment—

For a moment, Kjelle could almost pretend that she wasn’t lying. That it really _would_ be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In FFXII, viera can go berserk when exposed to high enough concentrations of Mist. In FFXIV, Fran refers to aether as Mist. And in Shadowbringers, the Warrior of Light gets absolutely saturated with aether. Combine the three, and... well.


	20. day 19: where the heart is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It matters not how many times Azem leaves the city, how frequent their departures, how keenly he feels their absence; he knows they will always return, given time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> absolutely phoned this one in and cannibalised the concept from an earlier snippet i was working on and then dropped, but i wasn't feeling up to writing much today so you get what you get

It is a beautiful evening in Amaurot; as the sun dips towards the horizon it paints the city in hues of rich orange and gold, fading light glinting against the city’s twisting spires. The river that winds its way, serpentine, through the city resembles nothing more than a river of fire, set ablaze by the sun sinking into its depths. Hades walks along that river, casting his gaze idly towards the groups scattered along its banks - friends and lovers in deep conversation, or else sprawled out in relaxation, watching children scamper and play.

...It is hard, sometimes, not to be jealous of his brethren.

Bitter are the times when he and Azem are parted. Hythlodaeus complains - loudly, _frequently_ \- that Hades is insufferable when his beloved roams beyond Amaurot, and this is the case more often than not, by virtue of their role as the Traveler. For what is a Traveler that does not, well, _travel_? It is their duty, true, but Hades cannot help but think that they would be like this regardless, even were they not Azem, even if the empty seat had been claimed by another; that some essential part of their soul _belongs_ on the road, a wanderer to help those in need.

It is, he supposes, part of what he loves about them, even if it does drive him to distraction most days.

His winding, wandering path carries him at last to the primary aetheryte plaza for Amaurot. It is a busy place, and Hades wonders if shedding his Convocation red for the white mask of an ordinary Amaurotine was truly necessary; travellers rush to-and-fro, barking out conversations in a hodge-podge of languages that are understood regardless, and precious few pay him any mind at all.

At the very least, the hustle and bustle of the plaza make excellent cover for him to take a nap; he finds a quiet enough spot to sit, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head back to eye the ever-spinning aetheryte. The setting sun refracts through the facets, turning the normally-blue stone a vivid orange. Here the flow of the underworld is visible, a ribbon-like stream that winds around the aetheryte, bearing the souls of travellers back home.

He dozes, for a time, lulled into slumber by the sights he sees, but the moment he feels Azem’s soul approach is like lightning down his spine. He stands, hurriedly, brushing imagined dirt from his robes and straightening his mask. He feels foolish all of a sudden - Azem has never, not even once, not even as _children_ , given a care for his appearance - but with this being the first time he has seen them in nearly two months, he finds himself willing to make the effort.

In a flash of light they appear at the base of the aetheryte, floating in the air in the moments before their feet touch the ground. There is something ethereal about them like this, in the seconds before they finish reforming. Something that makes him think of sunlight shining through stained glass. It mingles with the warmth and radiance of their soul, fills Hades with that same warmth - enough to keep away the cold left by their departure and tide him over until their reunion.

They are dressed for travel, not the placid life of a city-dweller; in the place of the standard citizen’s robes they wear sturdier, more practical gear, muddied boots and a leather satchel over one shoulder. It is unthinkable, in the city, to so openly defy tradition and expectation like this, though perhaps their one concession is the jet-black mask covering them from hairline to cheekbone. It leaves enough of their face exposed that Hades can see they’re smiling.

“Hades!” they call out, and the smile broadens into something _blinding_.

He opens his arms and beckons expectantly. Azem obliges, rushing down from the aetheryte’s dais and all but leaving into his arms. With his height advantage over them it’s trivial to spin them around in the hug, once and then twice and then a third time until they are giggling gleefully against his collarbone, face pressed into his robes to hide the flush upon their cheeks.

He lowers them back to the floor almost regretfully, reaching up to trace the edge of their mask with his thumb. “Welcome home, my dear,” Hades murmurs, leaning down to bump his forehead against theirs. They hum, pleased, arms sliding down to wrap about his waist.

“It’s good to _be_ home,” they reply, a tender smile gracing their lips.

It matters not how many times Azem leaves the city, how frequent their departures, how keenly he feels their absence; he knows they will always return, given time.


	21. day 20: tired (free day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **tired** _/tʌɪəd/_  
>  _adjective;_ in need of sleep or rest; weary
> 
> Kjelle attempts to convince a contrary miqo'te that he does, in fact, need even _more_ sleep.

“Krile tells me you aren’t sleeping well,” Kjelle said, instead of ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’ like a normal person would. Dropping her satchel by the chair pulled up alongside G’raha’s bed, she perched delicately on the seat and folded both hands in her lap as she regarded him with an unwavering lilac gaze. Fjola leapt up onto her legs a moment later, the amethyst carbuncle giving a crackling purr before settling down into a loaf, paws tucked under herself.

It took a few seconds before the miqo’te looked up from his own hands. He’d been staring at them a lot in the past few days, Kjelle knows; he hadn’t mentioned it, but she was fairly certain he was still adjusting to life in a body not being slowly devoured alive by crystal. He blinked at her, almost owlish in his demeanour, before giving a wan smile showing just a hint of fang.

“Krile would be correct.” G’raha fidgeted, running his left hand over his right, thumb rubbing along the base of his fingers where the straps of his golden armwraps would have run until only recently. “As I keep reminding her,” he said, sounding a hair closer to the haughty scholar she had known years ago, “I have had _far more_ than my fair fill of sleep as of late. I feel _fine_.”

Kjelle tutted under her breath. “Your aether,” she said pointedly, “has yet to rebalance itself. You nearly _collapsed_ when you tried to escape the other day. If you’ll not trust Krile, then trust _me_ when I tell you your body yet requires rest.” She scratched Fjola between her ears; the carbuncle purred louder in response, quad tails flicking back and forth. “Your slumber in the Tower—”

“Was more than adequate!” G’raha’s ears pricked up, tail thumping once beneath the thin bedsheets; there was a brief flare of anger in the ruby depths of his eyes that passed all too quickly as he flopped back against the pillows. “The others are all up and moving already,” he pointed out in an undertone, pouting.

With a sigh, Kjelle pinched at the bridge of her nose, just beneath her glasses. In her lap, Fjola _miaow_ ed, loud and plaintive, kneading at her Mama’s leg with both forepaws. “The others,” Kjelle said, “didn’t recently expend _massive amounts of aether_ setting up wards on the Crystal Tower. They _also_ didn’t refuse to rest when told to do so by not one, but _two_ trained healers.”

Fjola stood up from Kjelle’s lap and hopped lightly across the gap to G’raha’s bed. She settled in at his hip, laying her head in his lap and staring up at him with wide, dark eyes, deceptively angelic. All four tails swished slowly across the bedsheets, leaving a crackle of harmless static levin in their wake.

Faux-reluctantly, G’raha settled his hand between Fjola’s ears, scritching his fingers through the carbuncle's soft, velvety fur. “I don’t want to,” he said quietly, not quite looking up to meet Kjelle’s gaze. His jaw worked silently, and several times he took shaking breaths, as though working himself up to speak and then thinking better of it.

And suddenly - looking at him, stubbornly refusing to lay down and rest even with dark circles under his eyes and his aetheric readings in chaos - suddenly, Kjelle _understood_.

The last time he had slept, he had slumbered for two hundred years, and awoken to a world in chaos.

“Raha,” she murmured, so softly she wondered at first if he would hear her, so wrapped up in his own thoughts. But his ears pricked and he looked over at her, brows bunched up. “I will be here,” she said, simply.

“What if—”

Kjelle stood up, sitting next to G’raha on the bed, one of her hands resting on his where it lay upon the bed, the other reaching out to cup his jaw. The skin there was warm and soft beneath her fingers where before it would have been cold and crystalline. He leaned into the touch, eyes falling half-lidded.

“I _promise_ , Raha, that I will be here to wake you.” Her thumb stroked a slow line across his cheekbone. “And if I am not - if something or someone takes me away from you - then I will fight with every _onze_ of my power to come back. _Always_.” At his side, Fjola had stopped purring, and now scrambled to climb up and drape herself across his legs. Kjelle lifted her other hand to his face, now cupping it between her palms, and G’raha’s own hands wrapped, trembling, around her wrists.

“For the rest of my days,” she whispered, leaning so close that their noses nearly touched, “if you want me to, I will always be there to tell you _good morning_.”

His voice was a thin and watery thing when at last he spoke, eyes fallen shut to fan his lashes dark across ruddy cheeks. “I like the sound of that,” he managed.

“Good.” Kjelle reached up and ran her fingers through his unbound hair, thumbing briefly at one ear and smiling when it flicked against her skin. She moved back to the chair, leaning down to retrieve her grimoire from her satchel. She flipped it open and produced her quill with a flourish, gesturing at him with the feather. “Go on, I won’t repeat myself again. _Sleep_ , love.”

G’raha lay down against the pillows and laughed softly when Fjola took this as invitation to sprawl across his chest, purring once again. He laid a hand across the carbuncle’s back and closed his eyes - and the sound of his breathing evened out almost instantly, sleep claiming him at last.

Kjelle smiled to herself and settled in. She had nowhere better to be, and she had a promise to fulfil, one day at a time.

_Good morning, Raha._

_I look forward to saying it._


	22. day 21: foibles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **foibles** _/ˈfɔɪb(ə)l/_  
>  _noun;_ a minor weakness or eccentricity in someone's character.
> 
> In which Yasutori meets the lady of the Borel manor and immediately falls in love.

Aymeric yawned to himself as he made his way down to the kitchen of the Borel manor. The household was quiet; what few staff still remained in his employ had been sent home with full pay the evening prior, as was his habit whenever Yasutori was in Ishgard. He was under absolutely no illusion that the staff were not fully aware of _why_ he had sent them away, but he still enjoyed the relative privacy of nobody being around to overhear, should things get, ah... ‘ _vocal_ ’.

(They did. Quite often, at that. ‘Twas a miracle the neighbours had yet to raise a complaint.)

Still, it left him in relative solitude as he padded through the halls. Many a morning saw Yasutori wake earlier than Aymeric did, and on these mornings he would claim the garden for morning practice and leave Aymeric to sleep a little longer. It would be simple enough to set a kettle to boil for tea while he finished up, and that was what he intended to do.

He paused, however, upon looking out into the garden and seeing something unexpected.

On one side: Yasu, clad in the soft sarouel he’d worn to bed the night prior, crouched into a kneel in the snow-covered garden. He had one hand extended, rubbing his fingers together in a beckoning gesture, face open and unguarded and his eyes bright with humour. The weak Coerthan sunlight caught on his hair and made it shimmer slightly where it was pushed back from his face.

On the other: an unspeakably fluffy cat, pale cream-white fur matted down a little with snowmelt, sitting a distance away from Yasu and regarding him with squinting eyes. As Aymeric watched, she lifted one paw and demurely licked at it without taking her gaze from the auri man; her ears were pressed flat, mistrust evident in every twitch of her bottle-brush tail.

“Here, kitty, kitty,” Yasu _cooed_. There was no other word for it, the playful softness with which he called after the cat - the corners of his mouth curling up, nearly overbalancing himself as he sought to lean closer, closer, _closer_ —

“Ah, I see you’ve met the lady of the house,” Aymeric said from the doorway where he leaned, unable to help the smile leaking into his voice.

Yasutori flinched and straightened up, cheeks going ruddy. “I, uh— Aymeric! Good morning,” he said, coughing into his fist and then brushing loose snow from his knees. “...Is this your cat?”

“She belonged to my mother, if we’re to be technical about it, but yes,” Aymeric said ruefully, folding his arms to ward off the chill. “Yasutori Naeuri, meet Anastasia de Borel; Anastasia, meet Yasutori.” He gestured from one to the other as he spoke, still smiling; Anastasia blinked once at him, long and slow, before squinting once more at Yasu.

“She doesn’t seem to like me much,” Yasu muttered. By his ankles, the tip of his tail flicked back and forth, and Aymeric couldn’t help but snort when the movement seemed to spook Anastasia, who skittered backwards, fur puffing indignantly.

“Don’t take it personally,” Aymeric said, stepping forward to join Yasu and only _slightly_ regretting the way his feet immediately began to tingle with cold. “I think the only person Anastasia ever tolerated was Mother.”

Yasutori crouched again, clicking his tongue to try and coax the old cat closer to himself. Aymeric was about to tell him not to bother - Ana came and went as she wished, most days - when he felt a flicker in the air. Anastasia paused in her meticulous preening, swished her tail, and actually _trotted towards Yasu’s outstretched hand_. She sniffed at his fingers, rubbed her head briefly against the trimmed-down edges of his claws, and meowed once, loudly and insistently.

Gone was the fearsome Warrior of Light, the man who could cut down legions with his axe without breaking a sweat, whose very name inspired awe in his allies and fear in his foes - replaced, quite suddenly, by someone entirely innocent, someone carefree.

It was not a bad look for him, to be frank. Yasu sat down in the snow, actually, honest-to-Twelve _giggling_ as Anastasia gave a trilling _mrrrrrp_ and climbed into his lap, bunting her squished little face against his midriff. The au ra seemed unsure of where to pet first, his hands flitting back and forth as he scritched behind her ears, under her chin, her flanks; his tail swished to and fro, clearing a wedge of snow from its path and thumping resolutely against the floor in delight.

“ _Who’s_ a good kitty? Who is? It’s _you_ ,” he cooed, making kissy noises while Anastasia sniffed at his horns and butted her head gently against them, pressing her eyes tight shut when she rubbed her face along their curved sides. “Yes, _you_ , you’re the best kitty, _aren’t_ you.”

Aymeric smiled. “So the Warrior of Light has a weakness for small, fluffy things. Noted,” he remarked drily, arching an eyebrow when Yasu appeared not to hear him. A few moments ticked by and Aymeric frowned.

“...I can’t believe I’m jealous of my own cat.”


	23. day 22: argy-bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **argy-bargy** _/ˌɑːdʒɪˈbɑːdʒi,ˌɑːɡɪˈbɑːɡi/_  
>  _noun;_ british slang referring to an argument or debate.
> 
> Y'shtola takes tea and gives some advice.

Y’shtola sighed and stretched her feet out under the table, cradling her cup of tea between her palms. The Crystarium’s mostly open-air construction had served it well during an epoch of eternal Light, where every day was the same; now, with the Light banished and the world’s climate returning to its natural rhythms, the cold was creeping in. The layers of her robes had, likewise, carried out their purpose most admirably in the swamps of Rak’tika, but she was beginning to find them rather lacking.

 _Hm. Perhaps a set of mittens might be in order,_ she mused, idly wondering which artisan of the Means might be amenable to a trade. _Perhaps V’rahna could give me a recommendation..?_

No sooner had she pondered this than she felt a familiar flicker against her aether, as though by mere thought alone she had summoned the Warrior of Light - as if the woman were like a primal all unto herself. With one foot she pushed out the chair opposite her own at the café table, just in time for it to rattle as V’rahna dropped herself into it, arms folded and huffing loudly.

“Having a lovers’ tiff with dear Thancred, are we?” Y’shtola arched an eyebrow and lifted her cup to her lips, partly to take a sip and partly to mask the upward curl of her lips as V’rahna spluttered.

“It’s not - _we’re_ not - don’t _call_ it that,” she huffed, slouching forward onto the table. “That’s ridiculous. You’re making it sound like we’re— like we’re in some sort of twee _romance_ novel.” V’rahna snorted, and Y’shtola got the vague impression of her putting both hands to her cheeks as she adopted some overwrought accent. “ _Ooh, Mister Thancred, ooh._ Silly.”

Y’shtola leaned forward across the table. “Your choice of joke does much to shed light on your reading material, you know.” She set her cup down. “If you are not _lovers_ , then - pray tell, what _are_ you to one another?”

There was a moment’s silence. Half-masked by the hustle and bustle of the Musica Universalis around them, and yet not enough to escape Y’shtola’s fine hearing, V’rahna sighed. “We’re... we just _are_. I haven’t— it’s not— we’ve not really put a name to it.” There was a smile in the way she said it, albeit a wistful one; if she’d had her own cup before her, Y’shtola could well have imagined her idly running a finger along its rim.

In fact, Y’shtola contemplated waving down a waitress and asking for an extra cup to be brought to the table, that V’rahna might share her afternoon tea, only to think better of it; even three years (or so it had seemed from her own perspective) had not blunted the memory of the Warrior of Light’s staunch refusal to drink anything she had not either seen opened before her or personally ensured was safe - even here, a literal world away. “Trouble in paradise?” she asked instead, keeping her tone light and airy.

V’rahna laughed. “No, actually. ‘Paradise’ is probably the right word for it, even. It’s... it’s good. _We’re_ good. I’m happier than I think I’ve been in a long while now that— well. Now that we’re together.” Now the smile truly _was_ evident in her voice.

It would have been difficult not to be happy for the pair of them. To hear Alisaie’s complaints, the pair had apparently spent much of their time since Dravania staring after one another like lovesick puppies under the mistaken belief that nobody could see them doing it; while Y’shtola doubted the veracity of that particular claim, it _was_ plain as day in the rest of their interactions. The way they spoke, the way they behaved, even the shift of their aether, pushing and pulling on each other in near-perfect harmony both in combat and in repose.

Frankly, she’d been wondering if they would _ever_ work up the courage to act on such obvious feelings, and it pleased her to know that that day had come at last. It would have been better for all involved, perhaps, if it had not taken five years of separation on Thancred’s part and nearly becoming an unstoppable, Light-bloated abomination on V’rahna’s to push them together... but beggars could hardly be choosers.

“I can tell,” Y’shtola murmured, resting her chin against her hand, elbow propped upon the table. “Your aether is... radiant.” She paused, briefly, brow scrunching. “Not in the, _'_ _oh no, the Light, it is bursting free'_ sense,” she added hurriedly, sensing a brief spike of alarm running through the air, “only... you have a glow to you. ‘Tis quite charming, actually; being in love suits you. But I digress: you are _avoiding my original question_.”

“Ah.” V’rahna shrugged, the motion broad enough that even the barest whisper of aethersight caught it. “Thancred and I are in disagreement as to when we can safely return to the Empty,” she said with a sigh. “He thinks I need a few more days after facing Leviathan; I say I’m ready _now_.”

Y’shtola hummed thoughtfully. V’rahna’s favoured fighting style combined bardic techniques using a bow and arrow with those of a red mage, not unlike Alisaie’s magic; while it was superbly effective, from what Y’shtola had heard, the landscape of the Empty had been so heavily skewed towards Light that, once depleted, it was difficult to recharge one’s own aether while in the area - and downright _dangerous_ , for someone so recently recovered from a similar affliction.

“He has a point,” Y’shtola began, tapping her teaspoon against the rim of her cup. “Better to take a longer rest, that you might face the danger all the better recovered. The Empty is hardly going anywhere at the moment.”

A heavy thunk as V’rahna slumped, forehead down, against the table. “I hate feeling like I’m not doing anything,” she muttered into the woodgrain. “I just want to be _useful_.”

“Yes,” Y’shtola said primly, “and right now, you do that by not making the man you love worry for your health.”

The silence stretched on for several moments, long enough that Y’shtola began to pick up on the sounds of the markets around them once more.

“Oh.” V’rahna’s voice was very small.

“Yes, _oh_.” Y’shtola stretched her aethersight out, attempting to pick out the waitress she had ordered from earlier amidst the crowd at the café. “Now, would you like a cup of tea - my treat - or would you rather go apologise to Thancred?”

V’rahna laughed weakly, her chair scraping against the floor as she stood up. “I think...” There was a moment where Y’shtola was unsure of what the answer would be - and then she started in surprise as V’rahna wrapped her in a brief, there-and-gone embrace. “Thank you, Y’shtola,” she said softly. “You always know just what to say.”

“’Tis a gift,” Y’shtola said cheerfully. “If you’d be so kind as to point the waitress over to me as you leave?”

“Of course. See you soon!”

Y’shtola smiled to herself as she sat back in her chair, listening for the fading sounds of V’rahna’s footsteps. The Warrior of Light was a brilliant young woman, yes, but one with a habit of piling the world’s weight upon her own shoulders. Y’shtola had already laid claim to that particular weakness, she thought ruefully; there was no need to encourage it in another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot emphasise enough how delighted i was to see some british-isms get picked up as prompt words - and also to then spend several hours educating the rest of the book club on how to swear like a british person. great stuff.
> 
> slightly weak ending but oh well, that's how ffxivwrite goes sometimes!


	24. day 23: shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **shuffle** _/ˈʃʌf(ə)l/_  
>  _noun;_ archaic term for a piece of equivocation or subterfuge.
> 
> Yasutori recounts the tragic circumstances surrounding his departure from his previous employment.

“So, Yasutori, I _have_ to ask - what did you do before the Calamity?”

Yasu lifted his cup to his mouth, taking a slow, steady sip. Thancred leaned forward in his chair, eyes alight with curiosity, head tilted. Yasu let the drink linger far too long on his tongue, swallowing carefully; he drummed his nails against the table, the claws just this side of sharp digging into the soft wood.

“Bodyguard,” Yasu murmured, just as the silence seemed to stretch over-thin. The word came out terse, tense. “To an Ul’dahn goldsmith. Picked me up off the docks in Limsa.”

Rurujomi Nanajomi had been every ilm the expected stereotype; a money-hoarding, hand-wringing _snake_ of a lalafell who wanted nothing more than to slither into a place upon the Syndicate, and claim the wealth and power that came with the position. No depths would have been too low for him to sink - not if it had meant being able to reach just a few more coins. He had liked the finer things in life, whether that was clothes, women, artwork, furnishings, food, drink; anything and everything expensive, beautiful, and _exclusive_. Above all else, nothing had appealed to Rurujomi more than the idea of owning something nobody else possessed.

Yasu raised a hand to his neck, thumb running along the edge of the scales that wrapped around the front of his throat. There were days where he could still feel the weight of the collar there, biting deep.

He said none of this out loud. Instead he disguised the motion as merely scratching an inconvenient itch and dropped his hand, leaning back in his chair. “Not much interesting to say, really.”

Thancred raised both brows at him in disbelief. “And? How does a merchant’s bodyguard go from, well, _guarding_ , to being a dashingly handsome axe-for-hire?”

_By murdering the man holding the key to the shackles,_ Yasutori did not say.

“The Calamity,” he said instead, simply, shrugging almost too casually; if Thancred noticed the tremble of the hand that held his drink, the bard made no mention. “Terrible times. ‘M sure you’d agree.”

Riots in the street. The sky coming down around them. Bahamut’s furious cry, ringing out across Eorzea from the plains of Carteneau. Flashes in Yasutori’s head of memories not his own, and—

Yasutori had done many things to survive on the docks of Limsa Lominsa, few of which he was proud of. Stealing, cutting purses, roughing up anyone who looked at the younger children funny - but he would rather have done any of it over again than do what Rurujomi had wanted him to do.

_Bar the door._ Rurujomi’s voice, hushed and urgent. _Cut down anyone, and I do mean anyone, that comes too close, do you hear me? I have coin. A few dead refugees is no problem. But you don’t let **anyone** in. Do your job and **protect my investments** , damn it._

In his mind’s eye, in sleeping and in waking, Yasu could still see it: the lalafellin merchant, crouched down, turned away, shoving supplies into a bag. Muttering about markups, about how he could branch out - _stonemasonry, maybe, hike up the prices, Ul’dah would need her streets and houses repaired in the coming days, wouldn’t she?_ Or maybe it would be better, he’d muttered to himself, to simply cut and run, take his most valuable stock, lay low while the city rebuilt and see what could be raked from the coals afterwards. _If all else fails_ , he'd scowled, _there's always the Amalj'aa. Might be beastfolk but they've more coin than most. Plenty of bodies around, nobody would be missed._

Part of the ceiling had fallen in. Big, hefty chunks of stone. Not a problem for Yasu to lift, of course. He could have lifted that bit of rock a hundred times over and felt good about it afterwards.

He shrugged, meeting Thancred’s inquisitive stare over the top of the mug. “Nothing I could’ve done different,” he said, taking a deep drink. “Died instantly.”

And that...

Well, that was all the truth anyone needed to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a weird one, this! But I wasn't feeling any of the more conventional definitions of the prompt and my brain demanded a Yasu fill, so here we are.
> 
> (In case it isn't clear: Yasutori murdered his employer, made it look like he'd died in the ceiling collapse, and got the hell out of Ul'dah before anyone could question it. Equal parts wanting to be out of the gilded cage, and disgust at Rurujomi's business practices. [Bodyguard Betrayal](https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/BodyguardBetrayal) at its finest.)


	25. day 24: beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **beam** _/biːm/_  
>  _noun;_ a radiant or good-natured look or smile.
> 
> G'raha Tia, and the hidden emotions of the Warrior of Light.

G’raha Tia was a scholar. A student. A _historian_ , above and beyond all else, but what this boiled down to was that, at his core, his was a mind that catalogued facts, organised them neatly for later recall, and delighted in comparing the trivia he had collected. Allag and all its wonders had ever and always been his primary focus - attempting to shed light on the mystery of his bloodline and the Eye that haunted it, a once-a-generation ghost hanging heavy above his head - but as of late he had found a new topic to hold his attention.

The Warrior of Light was a... reticent woman, to put it mildly. G’raha had expected more charisma, more _cheer_ , from the one who held the fate of the realm in her hands, and found himself disappointed when reality seemed to fall short of his dream. Kjelle Virskallen barely smiled, barely emoted, her whole body held stiff and unchanging at all times. _Hate_ was a strong word, but _cold_ \- well. He certainly found it difficult to warm to her.

It wasn’t until one mild Mor Dhona evening found the fledgling group of NOAH gathered around the campfire, trading stories told between bites of supper, that G’raha saw a crack in the icy exterior. Biggs was laughing as he spoke fondly of a time when, in the midst of fixing a fault with the Tiny Bronco, Wedge had gotten himself stuck in a vent, only his feet sticking out and wiggling, voice echoing against the metal as he shouted for Biggs to pull him free— and, across the fire, G’raha watched as Kjelle tucked her mouth behind her hand, eyes crinkling _just so_ at the corners, a tiny curl of the lip the only other indicator of her amusement.

After that, it became a fascination. Anything that sparked a reaction of some sort was meticulously noted - anything that made her smile, anything that made her frown. He learned to differentiate the shades of her expressions, the slant of her lapine ears so slight compared to the hyper-mobile expressions of a miqo’te that it was hard at first to adjust.

But adjust he did; as that summer wore on, the secrets of the Tower unfolding before him almost seemed to pale in comparison to what he learned of the Warrior of Light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there was going to be more of this expanding to the end of the ct quests and into 5.0 but i'm not going to have time to write tomorrow and, more to the point, my focus is completely obliterated and it took me three hours to string together three hundred words which frankly does not feel great
> 
> so this is what you get unfortunately. sorry, maybe i'll come back to this after september's over? at least this much exists now i guess


	26. day 25: wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **wish** _/wɪʃ/_  
>  _noun;_ an expression of a hope for someone's success, happiness, or welfare.
> 
> Biggs, third of his name and the eighteenth president of the Ironworks, and his ancestor's hopes for the future.

The most precious gift of all was knowledge. This much held true even now, two centuries after the Eighth Calamity had torn Eorzea’s people asunder; food and shelter were necessities, of course, but _knowledge_ \- the _truth_ \- was just as important. To forget their past would, after all, be just as disastrous as ignoring their future.

 _Listen close, lad,_ Biggs’ father had said when he was still just a boy, setting him upon his broad knee. He’d protested at the time, wanting to go back to tinkering with his toys instead, but his old man had been firm. _Someday, you’ll be the head of the Ironworks, same as my pa before me, and his before him. An’ just like they did, I’ve got a gift for you. Passed down from father t’son, like. An’ who knows: maybe you’ll pass it to yours in turn. Or maybe you won’t. But it’s important that you know, okay?_

And he’d pressed an old journal into Biggs’ hands. The leather was worn and cracked, any title obliterated by the passing of years, a large blotchy stain muddying the back cover. Inside, the pages were wrinkled and dog-eared, and they bore what seemed an endless stream of cramped handwriting.

_This is our legacy, lad. Or, well - it’s part of it, at th’least. You ought to know what we’re fightin’ for._

And his father had smiled, and flipped the book to the first page, and began to read.

Biggs (the first of his name) had lived a _fascinating_ life. In his later years, as his memory had begun to fail him and he could no longer travel the ruins of Eorzea as he wished - as he watched the founders of the Ironworks wither and grow frail alongside him, and thought of a friend who had lost the chance to join the three - had committed all the stories he could recall of the Warrior of Light to the pages of the journal. These were not the fanciful retellings popular among the other folk; these were _real_ , unmarred by the changing voices of the past two centuries.

It amazed Biggs (the third) to think of how every penstroke in this book belonged to someone who had been dead for over a hundred years. No mere journal, it was a chronicle: a recording of Biggs (the first)’s most fervent wish. That someday, someone would throw wide the gates of the Crystal Tower, plumb its labyrinthine depths and heights, and unearth the treasure within. And that someone would be there to do so - that the Spoken races would endure such hardship - must have seemed an equally impossible desire.

And yet it was true, wasn’t it? A line stretched back through the mists of time, tethering Biggs to Biggs to Biggs and the varied ancestors between - a line of which the boy found himself at the leading edge, unspooling thread that others might someday follow him.

And as the years passed, the boy became a man, the tinkering child becoming an engineer in his own right, unparalleled in his field - as was expected for the leader of the Ironworks. Upon his father’s death, Biggs had inherited that old journal for himself, and he kept it close whenever possible, the better to refresh his recollection of the fanciful tales within. His favourite was one of the later stories. It was clear by this point that the first Biggs’ mind had been slipping; the later stories were more disjointed than the earlier, prone to long tangents unrelated to the story itself, speaking to the book as if he could reach through and speak to whoever would, in the future, read those words.

It was one such tangent he recalled now, as the members of the Ironworks expedition stood outside the doorway that would lead to the ancient Allagan throne room. The apex of the tower, the highest point one could reach without physically scaling the structure, warded from outside interference; the resting place of the one Biggs had come to call the sleeping prince.

Two hundred years. Biggs slipped his hand inside his jacket, feeling for the battered journal resting in an inner pocket. His fingers ran across the cracked, peeling leather, and he smiled. _Time to fulfill an old wish,_ he thought, and stepped forward, across the threshold.

(And then, nearly a year later, on the eve of the Crystal Tower’s launch through space and time, Biggs tucks the journal in amongst the other books G’raha Tia has selected for his journey. _From my grandfather to my father to me,_ he thinks, _and now, to you. Carry it with you, G'raha Tia. For all of us._ )


	27. day 26: when pigs fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **when pigs fly**  
>  _idiom;_ describing something that is impossible or highly unlikely.
> 
> A heart cannot be broken if you never give it to someone in the first place.

It would be a lie - and V’rahna was not a very good liar to begin with - to say she did not have... _feelings_ for Thancred.

It had been merely an aesthetic appreciation at first. He was handsome, yes, and she caught herself admiring the line of his jaw, the gleam in his hazel eyes, the way the soft fringes of his hair cast shadows across his face; unfortunately, he was also very much _aware_ of his looks, and that had soured him somewhat for her.

Ifrit had changed things. She barely remembered the immediate aftermath of the fight - much of those hours lost in a blur of heat and pain and the taste of ash and blood heavy in her mouth, only a dim awareness of what was going on around her - but she remembered him half-carrying her from the Bowl of Embers, alternating between speaking into his linkpearl to someone (Minfilia?) and murmuring reassurances to her. His voice had been so soft, so _genuine_ , and then to overhear him berating himself for his perceived failures later—

Well.

As she said: Ifrit changed things.

But then came Lahabrea masquerading in his skin, and looking back on it, V’rahna was ashamed to admit she simply hadn’t known him well enough to tell the difference. It was a deficit she’d endeavoured to make up for in the wake of the Praetorium; his recovery was slow but she’d been there for most of it, keeping him company whenever she could without pointing out that was what she was doing. They traded stories from childhood, confided feelings of helplessness born of their differed experiences - Thancred in the aftermath of Louisoix's death and Lahabrea's possession, V'rahna feeling the weight of Eorzea's expectations for their newest hero - and sometimes simply sat together, enjoying one another's presence without needing to say a word.

She could remember, with startling clarity, the moments just before the banquet had begun. She’d been fretting about her outfit, pacing back and forth; Minfilia had been radiant in a gown of pinks and purples that greatly resembled her standard attire, Y'shtola wearing something plain but elegant, while Yda’s idea of dressing up had simply been to wear something cleaner than usual. It had been Thancred who had stopped her before she could wear a hole clean through the carpet, and when she’d confessed, despairingly, to the fact that she’d never attended such a formal occasion before, he had been nothing but kind.

 _“You look lovely already, my dear,” Thancred says, smiling as his eyes flick up and down across her form, and not unappreciatively. “But if you’re_ truly _worried, I find that what helps_ any _outfit is the proper accessory.” He reaches up and unclips the choker clasped about his throat, pulling it away with a flourish. With his free hand he takes her own; his hands are broader than hers, broad in the palm with square, sturdy fingers, and V’rahna has to swallow down the blush threatening to bloom on her cheeks._

_A few deft movements and Thancred wraps the choker around her wrist, looping it several times around until it clicks shut once more. “There,” he says, sounding pleased with himself. “I shall be wanting this back when all is said and done, you know, so you had best keep it safe for me until then.” And then, with a devilish grin, he lifts her hand upwards just enough to press a gentlemanly kiss to the back of it. “And now, the lady is ready for her grand debut. Shall we?”_

She’d kept the choker. He’d asked her to, after all. It had stayed there, looped around her wrist, for months afterwards - like some strange reversal of a lady granting a knight her favour in old Ishgardian romances. It had accompanied her across Coerthas and Dravania, to the peaks of Gyr Abania and the wide plains of furthest Doma, anywhere Thancred himself could not follow.

It had become a symbol, almost. A symbol of what she wanted - what she _continued_ to want, with longing looks, lingering touches, eagerness to reunite and reluctance to depart - but could never have.

At first, V’rahna simply hadn’t wanted to become another notch upon the man’s bedpost, another one in the long line of women she saw hanging from his arm and every word; then she had taken the mantle of Warrior of Light - or was it, looking back after braving the Coils, more accurate to say she had _reclaimed_ it? - and that hesitancy had transformed into fear. The people closest to her got hurt... or worse. With their lives already so dangerous, loving him felt like signing his death warrant.

And all of this assumed that he would ever feel the same. She was— she was the _Warrior of Light_ , and that meant to most people she was some untouchable avatar of the Mothercrystal, but at the same time, she still _felt_ like the little desert kitten who had run away from the backwater village she called home, still naïve to the goings-on of the world. Hardly someone worthy of catching his eye, at first, and then he hadn’t seemed interested in _anyone_ , weighed down as he was by Minfilia.

No, she decided - far better, far safer, to love him and never say a word.


	28. day 27: assist (free day)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **assist** _/əˈsɪst/_  
>  _verb;_ to help another by doing a share of the work  
>  to make things easier for someone
> 
> Being an Au Ra isn't all fun and games; sometimes, you need a little help from those closest to you.

Aymeric stared up at Fortemps Manor and sighed, pulling the collar of his coat further up around his neck to ward away the chill. Night had not yet fallen; the Pillars were painted in the warm, rust-and-gold tones of late evening, and while a light snow had fallen throughout the day it had eased off at around the same time the light had begun to fade. It was, all in all, about as nice as one could expect for a post-Calamity Coerthas, and he’d thought it a good omen for the dinner he had planned.

At least until Yasutori had not only failed to make an appearance at the Borel manor, he had not so much as linkpearled ahead to inform Aymeric of his decision not to attend. It stung, slightly, if only because it was totally out of the norm for Yasutori - who usually leapt at the chance to spend any time with Aymeric at all - and because Aymeric had gone to the trouble of clearing his schedule for the following morning.

(Lucia had smirked at him for that one when he’d asked her to shuffle his meetings around. It wasn’t like that; he simply enjoyed getting to spend lazy mornings with his partner, and wasn’t that allowed? _Really_. The things she _implied_ , smirking at him like that. Aymeric was a _gentleman_.)

He nodded briskly to the guard on duty outside the manor’s front gate as he strode up the path; the man jumped to startled attention, eyes wide as saucers under his helmet at the sight of the Lord Commander making a visit. He knocked firmly at the door and then took a step back to wait.

To his surprise, it was not one of the Fortemps stewards who answered the door, but Tataru Taru; Aymeric blinked and had to adjust his view downwards quite suddenly to account for the Lalafell’s miniature stature.

“Oh! Ser Aymeric,” she said, apparently just as surprised to see him as he was to see her; “is something the matter? What can I do for you?”

Aymeric shuffled awkwardly upon the doorstep, feeling, abruptly, very foolish. Yasutori was a _grown man_ , and did not need checking upon like a child - and yet, it was unlike the man to blow off a prior arrangement so suddenly like this. His concern was warranted. Aymeric cleared his throat. “My apologies for intruding upon your evening, Mistress Tataru,” he said, resisting the urge to fidget under Tataru’s curious gaze, “but is Yasutori home at present?”

Tataru’s eyes went wide. “He’s, um... He’s not really feeling very well at the moment, I think,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Why, is something wrong? Did something happen?”

Aymeric raised a hand to ward off further inquiry. “I was about to ask much the same thing. I... well, we had plans. For dinner.” He gestured to the darkening street behind him. “When he failed to attend I began to worry something was amiss. You said he’s unwell..?”

Tataru sighed, the motion going full-bodied and dragging her shoulders to a slump. “You’d better come inside,” she said, pulling the door further open for him to do just that. Once she’d pushed it firmly shut behind him, Tataru peered up at Aymeric, wringing her hands anxiously. “He shut himself in his room last night,” she said, uncertainty making her voice waver, “and he hasn’t come out since. He _says_ he’s not sick, but, well... you know what he’s like,” she sighed.

It was true: Yasutori was not the sort of man given to leaning on his friends, even when he needed their aid; to admit weakness would have been unthinkable, as good as admitting himself a burden upon them. A _frustrating_ facet of his personality, certainly, but not one Aymeric could point out without sounding deeply hypocritical at best.

“May I see him?” he asked. When Tataru nodded and began to usher him deeper into the manor, he followed gladly.

* * *

Yasu whined miserably, the sound muffled by the pillow he had his entire face pressed into. His bedding was nigh-unrecognisable, blankets and cushions twisted and tangled until they more closely resembled the nest of some overgrown beast. The room was dim but not yet dark; he’d pulled the curtains closed and doused the lamps, but some light from the setting sun still made its way in.

Shedding scales was a regular occurrence for au ra; he’d learned from an early age that it was also, without fail, an _absolutely miserable_ one. His skin felt like it was burning and he wanted nothing more than to scratch at his scales until they bled. Unfortunately, to do so would damage the delicate new growth underneath before it had a chance to harden - a mistake he’d made as a youth and been forced to live with until the next shed came about, and thus one he had no desire to repeat.

There was no recourse, then, but to wait it out, and rub the shed scales away when he could bear to do so. He’d be useless for a few days - a sennight at most - but the wait in the meantime was going to be _unbearable_.

A knock at the door made Yasu stir. He grunted in response, lifting his head partway out of his blanket cocoon without bothering to unwrap himself fully.

“Yasutori?” Tataru’s voice was slightly raised - to better make it through the thick, heavy doors common in Ishgardian manors such as the Fortemps estate - but no less gentle for the volume. “Ser Aymeric’s here to see you.”

An ice-cold fear plunged to the pit of Yasu’s stomach and he sat up. _Oh gods,_ he thought, _the dinner, I forgot—_ “I’ll be right there,” he called back, voice halfway-hoarse, already struggling to untangle himself from the nest he’d formed. “I’m — _shite_ , I’m sorry—”

He staggered towards the door, pulling it open just wide enough to fit his face up to the crack between it and the frame; he found Tataru standing on the other side, dressed casually (by her standards) and wringing her hands anxiously, and then his eyes drifted upwards to meet Aymeric, who...

 _Oh. Okay, then._ Who didn’t look _nearly_ so angry as Yasu had feared he might.

Tataru smiled up at them both, giving Aymeric a pat on the knee - about as high as she could respectfully reach on him - and hurrying away; Yasu only realised she’d gone when he heard her rapidly-retreating footsteps pattering down the carpeted hall. His focus was... elsewhere.

“May I come in?” Aymeric folded his hands behind his back - a tic, Yasu had noticed, that often meant he was trying to avoid fidgeting - and nodded towards him, smiling gently. “If I would be intruding on something you, ah, would rather was not seen, then I—”

 _“No,”_ Yasu said quickly, eyes going wider. Much as he hated the thought of having to be seen like this, he hated the idea of _Aymeric not being there_ much more, for reasons he could not completely identify. _Maybe it’s some sort of instinct thing,_ he thought; “No, no, I, uh— come in, sorry, come in—”

He pulled the door open wider and retreated to the safety of his bed-turned-nest, climbing back into the shell of blankets and cushions. Shame, a relatively rare occurrence for him, made heat flush steadily up his chest and throat, pooling in his face; he knew he must have looked awful, stripped to his smalls with his scales peeling away in tiny, papery flakes, his skin gone wan and blotchy. It was even worse when contrasted with the fine clothing Aymeric was wearing - undoubtedly what he would have worn to dinner, had Yasu _actually shown up_.

(He’d dressed up _for him_ , for a dinner with him that Aymeric had gone to so much effort to clear time in his busy plans for, and Yasu had gone and fucked it up with _stupid biological bullshit_. Some partner _he_ made.)

“Sorry,” he muttered again, feeling somehow _more_ awkward now that Aymeric was actually in the room. He dropped his gaze to the blankets, picking guiltily at the flakes of shed scale that littered the fabric. “I, uh. Didn’t mean t’ruin the night.”

Aymeric hesitated in the centre of the room - at which point Yasu realised there wasn’t a chair in easy reach and promptly began mentally kicking himself for it - and then perched upon the edge of the bed. “There’s no need to apologise, love,” he murmured. “This is hardly within your control, or so I assume?”

“Happens a few times a year. S’what happens when the new scales grow in.” With a low, back-of-the-throat growl, he ran his claws across the scales capping the opposite bicep, only to flinch at the pinprick sensation.

Aymeric leaned closer, brow furrowed, and Yasu shifted away on pure reflex, the corners of his lips peeling back to expose fangs. Then he paused, took a deep breath, and purposefully settled, letting himself be inspected. He swallowed, feeling the flicker of tension as the pad of Aymeric’s finger traced the edge of his jaw, then ran along the column of his throat to curve down over the scales that covered his collarbones and sternum.

There was quiet for a moment. Then, Aymeric’s voice, gentle as ever: “How can I help?”

“What?” Yasu stared quizzically. “You— you wanna help?”

“Of course.” Aymeric stood for long enough to shed the heavy coat he wore, and then rolled up his sleeves on the fine shirt underneath. “I cannot, in good conscience, _leave_ you when you are like this. That is—” he paused, brow furrowed as he looked back to where Yasu still sat, half-enshelled within his blankets “—unless you would prefer to be left alone?”

Two sides seemed at sudden war within him. On the one side - the wish to be left alone, to brood in the quiet and the dark, and emerge only when he was properly shielded against the world once more, as he had done with every shedding season since he was no more than a Limsan wharf-rat. On the other - the desperate desire to be protected and held close, something ancient and primal in the very deepest hindbrain telling him to keep his mate nearby the same way it had told him to hunker down like this. And, on a more practical note... he really couldn’t reach some of these scales on his own, and he’d itch for _weeks_ if he couldn’t get them loose.

Yasu shook his head. “Stay, please,” he said softly, and Aymeric smiled.

One of the blessings of the older, fancier Ishgardian houses like the Fortemps manor was that most of the bedrooms - even guest chambers like those the Scions had settled into - came with small bathrooms attached. The one attached to Yasu’s room was no match for Aymeric’s own bathroom in the Borel manor, but it served its purpose well enough. Aymeric ducked inside, though not before calling out an instruction for Yasutori to lie down.

It made sense; if Aymeric was to help him get rid of the shed scales on his back, they’d need to be easier to reach than they were when he sat up. Yasu kicked the blankets out of the way and lay down, belly-first, dragging one of the pillows over and folding his arms upon it. He rested his forehead against his crossed arms, neatly hooking the curve of his horns underneath to keep from skewering either himself or the down-stuffed pillow with the points.

Like this, he couldn’t see what Aymeric was doing, and not even his Echo provided much in the way of useful details; he was aware of Aymeric moving around, and could hear the soft clunk of objects being shifted about and sense the shift of aether as crystals were activated, but the information refused to form into a cohesive whole.

Eventually, the mattress dipped as Aymeric settled at his side. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you look sunburnt,” Aymeric murmured, amusement colouring his voice. Yasu shivered, gooseflesh rising on his skin, as he felt Aymeric’s fingers run down the length of his spinal scales. They stretched from between his shoulderblades to the base of his tail, and he couldn’t reach _any_ of it on his own. “Is it okay if I start here?” Two fingers tapped against the apex of his spine, the touch light enough that Yasu hardly even flinched.

After Yasu nodded into his arms, he felt the first touch of a warm washcloth along his back. It had been wrung out so that it was damp, but not so wet that it left water pooling on his skin. The texture felt strange against his over-sensitive scales - not _unpleasant_ , as such, merely unusual. Aymeric swiped the cloth over his back once or twice, careful to keep a light touch.

“How does that feel?” Aymeric paused to give him time to answer. There was a steady _tap tap tap_ against the base of Yasu’s back, just above the band of his smallclothes, as water dripped from the cloth. _Distracting_.

Yasu hummed thoughtfully. “Feels good. You - y’can press a little harder, if you want. Not too much, though.” He let his eyes fall shut as Aymeric returned to the task at hand, applying more pressure, scrubbing in careful circles. He could feel the new scales tingling as they were exposed to air, and let out a low rumble as the itching, burning sensation he’d endured so far began to fade.

“...Are you _purring_?”

Yasu snorted. “No. M’not a cat.”

“You _are_. You’re purring.”

 _More like a Coerthan croc than a cat,_ he wanted to object, but Aymeric had picked up the washcloth again - had wetted it once more, now focusing on his lower back. The Elezen hummed as he worked, some soft tune that Yasu didn’t recognise; his free hand braced against Yasu’s hip, in the space between the scales along his back and those that lined his ribs. It ought to have been an unwelcome touch - he hated being touched in general while shedding, one of the reasons he locked himself away like this - but instead it felt soothing. Soft. He felt vulnerable, as he often did like this... but not _weak_.

Yasu was almost beginning to doze off when a thought occurred to him and he propped his chin against his forearms. “Sorry,” he mumbled, head angled just enough to see Aymeric in his peripherals - head bowed, lower lip tugged between his teeth as he worked, brow drawn low in concentration. Aymeric looked up, shooting him a questioning glance. “This... probably isn’t how tonight was meant t’go, was it,” Yasu clarified, rolling his shoulders as if to emphasise - and earning a huff of laughter from Aymeric as he sat back.

“Perhaps not,” he said, with a shrug of his own, “but I don’t mind. ‘Tis nice, to care for another like this.” Aymeric ran the flat of his palm down Yasu’s back, from shoulderblades to the base of his tail. “I think I got all the shed from your back,” he said, brow furrowed. He moved as though to repeat the motion, this time with the tips of his fingers, only to pause when Yasu sucked a breath in through his fangs.

“Don’t,” he said, raggedly, pressing his eyes tight shut. “Sensitive.”

“Ah. My apologies, love,” Aymeric murmured, leaning down to press a butterfly-soft kiss against the rounded shape of Yasu’s shoulder, above where the scales began. “Is there anywhere else you need help with?” He sat back up, dipping the washcloth back into the water.

“This is gonna sound embarrassing, but—” Yasu reached up and tapped a finger to the underside of his jaw “—it’s tricky to know when I got it all here. You wouldn’t _believe_ how long I’ve spent pickin’ loose shed off my neck before.” It was unsightly, it was embarrassing, it was distracting when it itched, and worst of all it felt like waving a giant flag that said _look at me, I’m vulnerable, none of my scales have hardened in yet_.

Aymeric laughed. “Like missing a spot when shaving,” he mused to himself, shuffling up the bed so that he knelt roughly level with Yasu’s shoulders. With two fingers, he carefully tilted Yasu’s head from one side to the other, expression gone soft yet intense once more. “Is there anything I ought to know?”

“Uh— careful ‘round the bottom of the horns? S’about it.” He settled back, letting Aymeric push gently on his chin-spikes until his head was tilted as far as it would comfortably go.

If he’d felt vulnerable before, _this_ was a level beyond. The scales of his throat were thicker across the front of his windpipe, thinner to the sides, but still quite soft and flexible; with his head back like this, there would be little fight to put up against an attack. But there was no attack, no knife: only Aymeric, with the same soothingly repetitive motions of the warm washcloth rubbing circles into his scales with a single-minded focus.

Aymeric’s free hand came to rest this time against Yasu’s forehead, the pressure just enough to keep him still without being enough to make him panic or shy away. One thumb rubbed idly at his temple, just behind one of the patches of scale that grew upon his face; Yasu found himself rumbling again, the noise deep enough that he felt the mattress reverberate under him.

“I didn’t notice before,” Aymeric said, his voice barely more than a whisper, gone husky and breathless, “but the new scales... they remind me of seashells. Mother-of-pearl, almost.” There was a prickling, near- _ticklish_ sensation as Aymeric ran a finger up under Yasu’s jaw that made his tail thump against the bed in reflex.

“Mhm.” He cracked open one eye, peering up at Aymeric leaning over him. The hand at Yasu’s forehead moved, bracing beside the curve of one horn instead. “Means they’re still soft. Bit sore, not much good for protecting. S’why I don’t like them being touched.” He smiled, the expression sprawling crooked and lazy across his mouth, his eyes heavy-lidding and trusting. “Not ‘less it’s you, anyroad.”

Aymeric smiled in return, something unbearably soft in the way he looked down at Yasu’s face. “Then I shall consider it an honour,” he murmured, before leaning down to capture Yasutori’s lips in a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is it obvious that i just really really wanted to write something Tender™


	29. day 28: irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **irenic** _/ʌɪˈrɛnɪk,ʌɪˈriːnɪk/_  
>  _adjective;_ aiming or aimed at peace.  
>  _noun;_ a part of Christian theology concerned with reconciling different denominations and sects.
> 
> Elidibus attempts to mend what has been broken. Takes place shortly before "crux".

“Azem! _Azem!!_ ”

The patter of footsteps echo against the walls of the Capitol building. Elidibus, newest and youngest of the Convocation, diminutive beside his peers and garbed entirely in white, has to cling to his hood to keep it from whipping straight off his head; underneath the hood, his mask sits askew and his hair hangs in limp strands against his shoulders. He might have made a comical sight indeed, were anybody else around to see it. He gasps for breath, skidding to a stop before the one he’d called after.

“Azem”, he says, voice urgent, “ _please_ , reconsider.”

The figure turns. “I’m not Azem any more, Elidibus,” they say, mouth pressing into a thin line. Their hood is back, their mask missing; it exposes their eyes, warm shades of sunset turned flint-sharp. “You witnessed my resignation just as the others did.”

“Fine, then. Pandora,” he says, straightening up as his breathing returns to normal. “There must be _some_ way— something we can do, some concession to be made - we can still fix this, I'm sure of it!” His own mask hides half of his expression, but there is no hiding the desperation in his voice.

Pandora huffs, throws up their hands. “If there _was_ , it would have been suggested already!” They stride away and Elidibus scurries after, ever in their shadow. “I have been _ignored_ and _left out_ at every turn of the wheel, Elidibus. ‘Tis plain my input as Azem is no longer wanted or wished-for.”

“That’s not true,” he says. They’ve reached the doors by now and Pandora goes to push them open, only for Elidibus to plant himself between them and the handles. “Please, I just— give me a chance. Give me a chance.”

Pandora sighs deeply. They scrub both hands across their face and then reach down, hands on Elidibus’s shoulders, and move him - gently, so gently, because despite disagreements with the rest of the Convocation he is still their little brother and thus dear to their heart - to the side. “There is a lesson,” they say softly, “that your predecessor, and every Elidibus that came before her, learned one day. I regret only that it took you ‘til _now_ , with the stakes so high.”

This close, they can see his eyes behind the dark circles of his mask. They are wide, and bright, and no longer filled with the same joyous wonder that he had carried with him before; they are filled, instead, with tears.

“The lesson is this: sometimes, there is no common ground to be found. And for that, Elidibus, I am sorry.”

* * *

_“There is no common ground to be found between you and I. Nor do I require any. I have my duty.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am not super happy with the fact that this is so short but words machine broke tonight, sorry


	30. day 29: paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **paternal** _/pəˈtəːn(ə)l/_  
>  _adjective;_ of or appropriate to a father.
> 
> A trip out in the Crystarium, and thoughts of family.

In the years since he has taken stewardship of Minfilia - of _Ryne_ , he corrects himself with a deep breath - Thancred has become familiar with the routine of strangers. They tend to assume she is his daughter by blood, and to most he does little to dispel the illusion no matter how it makes something in his chest ache. More effort than ‘tis worth, he supposes; easier, faster, to let the lie... well, lie.

It isn’t as though he’d been a very good father to her thus far, blood or not, in any case. He looks back on their earlier times together - all the time before V’rahna re-entered the picture, if he is being honest - and wishes he could take it all back, somehow. But he cannot, and the past must stay as it is. All he can do now is hope that his actions now will help mend those earlier hurts.

But, yes, to return to the matter at hand: he is well-used to hearing people refer to Ryne as his daughter. _“You and your girl can stay the night,”_ a farmer in Kholusia had told him once, _“so long as you both can take up a blade when the Eaters come.”_ In Amh Araeng the Mord had taken to calling her _your little one_ in their screeching tones; in Lakeland a merchant’s wife had taken pity and shown him new dresses for _his sweet dove_ , nodding to where then-Minfilia had been gently patting an amaro on its velvety nose.

What does catch him by surprise is this:

It is early evening in the Musica Universalis, early enough still that the light is still pale gold in colour before it streams through the azure-glass domes overhead. With business in the Empty concluded for the time being, there is time yet before the three of them must needs return. Ryne had been the one to suggest the shopping trip, which had ended up devolving into her cooing over the food stalls laden heavy with foods from across Norvrandt, dragging Thancred and V’rahna behind her with matching expressions of amusement.

Eventually, however, the smell of hot stews and soups draws the trio in far better than any of the sweets and pastries ever could. The stall is simple, tucked to the side, staffed by a short Hume woman with greying chestnut hair tucked into a practical bun. She brightens up as Ryne approaches, stirring a large pot of soup from which the scent of herbs wafts.

“You after a bite to eat, love?” She reaches under the counter top when Ryne nods, placing a thick, sturdy mug onto the counter; as Thancred and V’rahna bring up the rear, she adds two more. “Just the thing to warm you up on a cold day, isn’t it?”

“It smells _lovely_ ,” Ryne says, starry-eyed.

The Hume woman smiles brightly as she ladles the soup into each mug, steaming gently in the brisk late-autumn air. “You make _such_ a cute little family,” she coos, eyes flicking rapid-fire from Thancred, to V’rahna, to Ryne standing between them. To Ryne, she says, “I bet you’re happy you got your mum’s hair and not your dad’s, aren’t you, petal?”

A moment passes, and then another, just as awkward as the first. Three voices:  
“I’m not—”  
“She isn’t—”  
“We’re not—”

The woman laughs. “Aww, come on, now,” she says, snapping lids onto each cup. “This is the _Crystarium_ , loves, we’ve got _all_ kinds here. You’ll get no judgement - not from me nor any of the folks round these parts, you hear?” She slides the cups across the stall counter. “Here you are.”

“Thank you,” V’rahna manages to say; when Thancred glances over, she’s gone ruddy pink practically from brow to chin, entire face a flush of embarrassment. She pays while Thancred picks up the cups, passing one to Ryne.

It isn’t until they’re seated at one of the benches dotting the Musica Universalis that one of them speaks up.

“My hair _is_ sort of similar to yours, isn’t it, V’rahna?” Ryne kicks her feet back and forth under the bench. “It’s almost funny, really. I _was_ blonde and now I’m not. You were blonde, too, but—” her breath catches, some of the humour fading from her voice “—not for long, thank goodness.”

V’rahna lifts the cup to her lips and hisses when the soup proves too hot to drink. “I _much_ prefer being ginger, thank you,” she says, running her fingers through her hair. “Blonde wasn’t really my colour.”

Thancred stares off into the distance, not really hearing either of them.

He’s too busy thinking about how - for the first time - the assumption of _family_ had not really bothered him.


	31. day 30: splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **splinter** _/ˈsplɪntə/_  
>  _noun;_ a small, thin fragment broken off from a larger piece.  
>  see also: **_shard._**
> 
> Full circle.

It was a beautiful sunny day in Mor Dhona. The air was crisp and clean, free for once of the violet aether-miasma that typically hung over the area like a funeral shroud. The sky was bright blue, impossibly blue, and the sunlight shone down in gentle rays unhundered by a single cloud; there was a slight breeze, enough to ruffle hair or disturb papers left lying on a desk, but not enough to bring a chill.

There were a few grassy fields in Mor Dhona, a handful subjected to neither the swampy, Morbol-infested conditions of the southern regions nor the bitter cold that swept down from the Coerthan ranges. It was in one such field - secluded, free of worries for the moment - that a copper-haired miqo’te had found a moment to herself. In one hand, held up to the light, was a shining orange stone.

V’rahna held the gemstone up to the light, turning it this way and that between forefinger and thumb. Sunlight streamed through its rough facets, casting a sparkling light upon her face. A simple symbol seemed to drift within the gemstone, as though caught in amber - a pair of concentric circles, the center filled, almost resembling a planet in orbit.

Azem’s memory-stone hummed in her grasp. Merely _holding_ it sent slow pulses of warmth through her arm. It felt _right_ , somehow, to keep the stone close.

V’rahna had wondered, more than once over the last couple of days, if it was worth looking into whatever memories the stone held. There was a curiosity deep in her chest - ever the storyteller, even now - to know more about who she had once been, who Hades had wished with all his heart she might be once again. Who had Azem been? Had they resembled her in any way? Or was it the other way around; had Hades seen glimpses of his lost love within their sundered shards? Within _her?_

One fragment of fire-hued light fell across V’rahna’s eyes, and she saw—

  
 _At the top of a tower, a dark-skinned woman with curly hair and molten-fire eyes stands ready,  
sword in hand, _ _her friends and allies gathered behind her in one desperate last stand.  
Unseen by her, a man with pale yellow eyes watches from the shadows._

_A viera woman stands alone in gold-and-azure halls, her palm resting flat against a door many times  
taller than herself, frost spilling from her outstretched fingers and tears from her tight-shut eyes.  
_ _She crumples to her knees, forehead pressed to the cold metal._

_Amidst a strange colour-bleached landscape, beneath a pitch-black sky, a solemn-faced young boy - his lilac eyes framed  
with long strands of white - dutifully accepts a mask from a man clad in white and gold robes._

_The crackle of a hearth-flame drowns out the words of a Raen man, flipping idly  
through the pages of a book while he leans against a dark-haired elezen in blue.  
The elezen laughs, leaning in to press his lips gently to the auri man's temple._

_Dozing in the warmth of a Kholusian afternoon, a man with choppy brown hair and bulky armour  
leans back against the feathered flank of his companion, who trills softly in contentment.  
The axe on the ground beside him is, for now, unstained._

_The light from the doorway drowns out their silhouette - save for the eyes, bright gold  
and somehow both accusatory and remorseful, glimpsed in the final moments before the door closes forever._

  
The crystal bounced off of V’rahna’s nose and she blinked, dazed, into the clear blue sky. Her linkpearl chimed, soft and steady, against the shell of her left ear; she lifted a hand in lazy answer and allowed a smile to curl, soft and satisfied, across her face.

She could only hope that Azem, wherever they were, whatever state they existed in beyond their own sundering, would have been pleased by the actions of their shards. Or at the very least, not too disappointed.

* * *

_feel the wind eternal,_ _sweeping 'cross the land_

_over sea and desert,_ _stirring waves and sand_

_lost within the darkness,_ _i am blinded by light_   
_a radiance that brings endless night_

_now a secret beckons,_ _let it show us the way_   
_together we will find the break of day_

_beneath the fiery sky,_ _where the rain runs dry_

**_let my song be lifted_ **   
**_by the wind on high_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap, folks! My first ever FFXIVWrite, completed on-time for all thirty days - which, considering I barely ever complete anything, is one hell of an accomplishment!
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who has read my fills for the past month, everyone who has left kudos, everyone who has left comments - please know that even if I didn't reply, I read and cherish every single comment I get. I would not have had the willpower to keep going without that good good serotonin hit from knowing people are reading and enjoying what I do.
> 
> Now I think I could use a break. But after that... well, we'll have to find out together, won't we? ;)


End file.
